The Monkees in WHERE?
by Javanyet
Summary: Monkees in Paris: In the words of Philippe the concierge, "To visit Paris for the first time... romance is not optional." A/N: And now the image I posted makes sense... n'est-ce pas? I hope you enjoyed.
1. Look out, here comes tomorrow

**A/N: My apologies to fans of Des Moines, no offense intended. I had to pick somewhere!**

* * *

Bob had a brilliant idea. The idea was? Base some "real cam" episodes in different cities; let the viewers see their faves running around a city Hard-Days-Night style. The "on tour" episode was so popular, he figured one with a little less structure, centering on a city that maybe had been voted on by fans, would bring in even more viewers. Ratings were already at the top of the heap, product tie-ins were a license to print money, and everyone was begging for more.

In order to keep things under _some_ control, the production staff chose ten cities, and the votes were narrowed to five finalists. New York, St. Louis, Philadelphia, Cleveland, and Des Moines, Iowa.

Bonnie's eyes snapped up from her notebook at the final option. "Did I hear you right? _Des Moines? _I know without asking you got a reason, but I'm gonna ask anyway just to hear it."

"Local fan club president, she got the kids to lobby hard. We figure we could do a little impromptu meet and greet with the guys, just a little press and a couple of reps from 16…"

"Uh, sounds kinda like Bye Bye Birdie, Bob," Chip observed.

Everyone laughed, and Bob glared at them. "Ha. Ha. Nobody'll be getting drafted, and _nobody'll _be getting kissed on camera."

"And after dark, all bets are off…" Bonnie mumbled, and the others laughed again. But Bob was Bob, and Bob was in charge.

* * *

So off they went, Bob and Bert and Bonnie and a couple of tech guys, and Kirshner. They took off for over a week of sit-downs with the film boards and city representatives of the finalist cities, to see what facilities they might get deals on, where the best tech and logistical support was, where the workable locations were.

The night before they returned to L.A., everyone met in Bob's suite at Des Moines Hilton (who knew there was such a place, Chip had cracked) to discuss their conclusions. Because, of course, serious planning would have to begin the minute they touched down in L.A.

All the cities had possibilities; all had key tourist-y landmarks for the guys to cavort in and around. Except for Des Moines.

"There is just no fucking place to cavort in Des Moines," Bonnie announced flatly. She had been running point on scouting locations, with the tech guys in tow to see how practical things like filming and sound might be. "The town's so low budget, maybe we can just get a few more crew in and _build_ 'em one."

Kirshner would have concurred, but the fan club angle had visions of a new song premiere, a la Last Train to Clarksville, spinning on the turntable in his head. He said as much, and waited for a response.

Bonnie couldn't bring herself to call Kirshner Don, as he'd invited everyone to do, and didn't respect him enough to call him Mr. Kirshner, so she simply avoided using a name when he was around. "That smug bastard" worked fine when he wasn't. For now, she just spoke her exhausted mind.

"_Love_ it! Call Boyce and Hart… they can call it The Last Bus Outta Des Moines. We can set the guys up to lip synch among the winos at the bus station, and serenade the last Greyhound out."

Kirshner didn't rise to the bait. If there was one thing he was good at, it was keeping his cool. His firm belief in his own genius made that easy for him. "Bonnie, I think you're forgetting what our respective jobs are here."

If eye rolling could make a sound, the whole city would have gone deaf. Even Bob was poised to try to head off the "I'm the hit maker, and you just have to follow my lead" speech. Not that he didn't share the attitude most of the time, but right now it wasn't worth the bitch-fest that was sure to follow. _Too late._ Bonnie was just burnt out enough to do it for him.

"Not at all. The Monkees' job is to ride this wave as long as it lasts. Bob's job is to style the beach," she indicated her boss with a gracious wave of her hand, then turned a jaundiced eye on Kirshner.

"And _your _job... is to build the surfboard."

Kirshner's color rose just half a shade, then he regained his maddeningly smooth demeanor. "Remind me, just what is _your_ job, again?"

"Everything else," Bob declared, as much to break the tension as end the meeting. "It's two a.m. and we have a noon flight tomorrow. Everybody get some sleep and write down whatever comes to you."

Bob was a great one for keeping notes, which was something that he and Bonnie really saw eye-to-eye on. The concept of the accidental great idea. Of course, sometimes he misidentified which was what.

Bonnie was last one out, as usual, because Bob always had a last word (or more) for her.

"Look babe, I know it's because you're fried, but I really count on you not to mouth off on Don."

"Sorry, Bob, moment of weakness." She yawned. "Look, there's been a gorilla in the corner for the past hour, and I can't believe nobody mentioned it."

He was genuinely curious. "Gorilla? What gorilla?"

"That even in Des Moines, the guys are gonna be mobbed six ways from Sunday. No matter what pretty notes we write down and what contracts we sign with the city, it'll be like choreographing a riot."

"Riot? C'mon, we can handle security."

Bonnie hooted with laughter. "Yeah, like the Running Of The Psychos in the Cleveland plaza, huh? All it took was one little elevator button, and it turned into The Last Train To Freaksville. They're lucky they got away with all their parts intact."

Bob ran his hands over his face. "Shit. _Shit_. So what is _your_ brilliant alternative?"

"Ain't got one. Styling the beach is _your_ job." She waved a goofy bye-bye and left him to stew.

* * *

The next days' flights were delayed by storms, by engine troubles, by every stinking thing that could delay them. They finally touched down in L.A. at midnight, too thoroughly exhausted to do anything but take their leave of one another.

"C'mon, my limo can run you home," Bob offered Bonnie. She thanked him, and said she'd grab a cab. "Okay, here's a fifty, that should cover it."

She stared at the bill he'd shoved into her hand. He was a major pain in the ass, was Bob, then would turn around and be a goddamn prince when you needed it most. "Thanks, Bob. I don't care who says you're a fascist asshole, you're okay by me."

"Hah. And take the day tomorrow, I'll call the guys and tell 'em. You did good, Bonnie. Even if you did hand Kirshner his head. You did it with style. Not like some people."

After he was safely out the luggage claim door and into his limo, Bonnie dragged her suitcase to the nearest cab.

"Nine-oh-three-two Crescent Drive, in the hills."

The driver looked at her suspiciously. She knew she had to look like last week's lunch, so she waved Bob's fifty.

"I got it covered, man, just drive, okay?"

More suspicion from the cabbie when they pulled into the driveway. "You sure this is it, lady? That musician Monkee guy lives here. Doesn't look like he's home, either."

"Trust me, it's okay. I know where he keeps the spare key." She handed him the fifty and before he could complain about breaking it she said, "Just keep it."

She found the key hanging from the nail high up on the doorjamb, and managed to let herself in without making any noise. An upstairs light was on and she heard the shower running. She left her bag at the foot of the stairs, did a quick wash-up/teeth brush in the kitchen, then pulled her nightshirt out of her bag and crept upstairs. She was changed, burrowed under the covers, and out like a light almost before her head hit the pillow. That changed moments later, as she felt a lean, warm body pressed against her back, long arms wrapping around and turning her.

"Well _hello_, mama... gone for five minutes and just look what turns up," Mike murmured against her neck as he wound his arms around her. "And only seven hours late."

"Shuttup," she whined. "Bad flights, long meetings, wanna _sleep_."

"Now if you just wanted to sleep you woulda gone home," he told her, and she mumbled something and shook her head. "Well at least gimme some sugar, Morris, I am positively hy-po-GLY-CE-mic." He drew out every syllable in a persuasive drawl. After she gave up a number of long kisses, he licked his lips. "Mmm, airplane toothpaste…" She made a grumpy sound and tried to turn away, but he pulled her closer into his arms and whispered, "Okay, now just settle down, lemme lay some Papa Nez TLC on you, you'll be good as new, poor baby workin' your sweet ass off to help make me a rich man..."

She went boneless in his arms and gave herself up to the kisses he planted all over her face and neck. He was laying it on thick and silly, like he sometimes did when he was in a mood. She could fairly feel the mischievous edge of a smile in his kisses.

"Oh… I promise you, Nesmith, by this time tomorrow you are gonna wish I didn't."


	2. Words

Predictably, the concept of "take tomorrow off" was short-lived.

After lounging in bed at Mike's until almost ten a.m. – alone, as he was working on some new songs downstairs – Bonnie showered and was hanging on the downstairs deck, enjoying the view, the kick-ass coffee that Nesmith had brewed, and the sound of his guitar trailing out the window of the music room. Promptly at ten forty-five, she went back in the house.

"Hey Nesmith, where's the downstairs phone?" No reply. She went to the music room and found him crouched on the ottoman, listening to the playback of what he'd just taped, writing it all down on staff paper. She walked up close behind and stood over him.

"HEY NESMITH, WHERE'S THE DOWNSTAIRS PHONE?" she hollered, inches behind his head. He jumped a mile, and the padded headpiece of his headphones whacked her the face.

"Ow!" She grabbed her nose and jumped back as he shut off the tape and took of the phones. "I dink you broke id! Danks a lod, Desmid."

"Jesus jumped-up Christ, whaddaya expect?" He pounded his chest. "Gimme the cables, will ya, I need a jump." Bonnie was still hanging onto her nose, eyes shut tight. "Ah c'mon, Morris, quit bein' such a baby. Lemme see." He gently pried her fingers away. "Still straight, no blood." He bent down to kiss the tip. "There, all better."

"Sez you." She made a couple of rabbit faces, just to be sure. "I need to call my service, where's the phone down here?"

"Maybe the blow to your nose confused you…" He cruised past the lame pun. "You have the day off."

"Sez you," she repeated. "Phone."

"Suit yourself." He pointed her to a table in the corner. He watched smugly as she dialed. "Wasting your time," he whispered, waving his hands, "_wasting my phone_…"

She ignored him as she dialed. "Hey Janie, it's Bonnie. What've you got for me?" A pause, a nod, "I'm stunned. I'm shocked. I'll be there. Thanks, Janie." She hung up and turned to Mike. "I got a sit-down at two, with Bob and Chip and the writers." She brought her mug in from the deck and held it out to him. "Coffee. More."

"Uh-uh, Oliver, not until you tell me why suddenly we don't have the day off anymore."

"Oh, _you_ do, all of you _stars_ do. Us production lackeys, fat chance." She took her mug back from him and went into the kitchen, chanting "Coffee… more… coffee… _more_." Mike trailed behind, a picture of disgruntlement. When she found the pot, empty, and shook it at him whining "_More,_" she caught him getting ready to wind up into a rant against The Man.

"Don't start, Nesmith. I myself am not even surprised. Really, I can't believe it… we all started this gig at exactly the same time, working for exactly the same guys, and you _still_ get blindsided. Too much into the music, I guess." She gathered her stuff up set it by the door. "Drive me in will ya? I should get some stuff done in my office before we do this 'sit down' thing."

"This what you were talking about last night? What I'll wish you didn't work so hard for?" He grimaced, and shook his head in disgust. "Man, I could learn to hate this music business. Suffering for art, that's bullshit."

She shook her finger at him. "Lemme remind you of something… the business of music is _business_, not music. You and David and Micky and Peter do the acting in the studio and the music on the road, and the rest of us do the business. _Everyone_ suffers. Some of us profit. The. End. Now _who_ do I have to fuck to get some _MORE COFFEE?"_

As usual, her refusal to cave killed his interest in the debate. His demeanor turned on a dime from Pissed Off Artiste to Sexy Rock Star. He slunk closer, reaching for her.

"Why that would be _me_, little lady," he drawled in his most seductive, honey-velvet voice, "Which would you prefer first?" When she shoved her mug at him, the grimace returned. "_Damn_ you know how to slap down a good offer. Just for that, no Papa Nez morning lovin' for _you_." He turned on his heel and went to refill the percolator.

"And another thing, Nesmith," she told him, "Never, _ever_, not on the longest day of your life, will I _ever_ call you 'Papa Nez'. That's fan talk. I am _not_ a fan."

"Yeah, yeah, you're telling _me_," he muttered as he set the pot on to brew. "You are a cruel, _evil_-minded woman…" He whipped around suddenly and snatched her into his arms, dipping her almost to the floor. "Lucky for you that's just my style."

* * *

"I had a great idea last night, guys," Bob announced to the assembled Production Lackeys. "It'll get us to a new location, it'll grab the kids watching, and it'll keep the guys from getting mobbed. We're gonna go to Paris."

Blank stares all around.

"Paris," Chip repeated in a monotone. "As in France."

"Well I don't mean Paris as in Texas."

"Thank god for that," one of the writers mumbled. "Writing for one fuckin' Texan is enough. Couldn't handle a whole city full."

"Well you don't have to worry, guys… there's gonna be no dialogue."

Now the three-man writing team, who Bonnie had dubbed (in her head) as See No Rewrite, Speak No Rewrite, and Hear No Rewrite, blinked as one.

"Wanna tell us what we're here for?" the Hear No Rewrite said. "Since nobody's gonna have lines?"

"Scenario, guys, we still need the scenarios!" Now he turned to Bonnie, "I was thinking hard about what you said about the guys getting killed by crowds, so I called Donnie and asked, 'where in Europe are the Monkees selling the least records and getting the least press'? And he said, France! So… killing two birds with one stone… we can get this special 'real-cam' thing done where it'll be easier to shoot, and we can up their press in France at the same time!" He turned back to the writers. "I want it to be like… a mob of fans chasing them around Paris, the landmarks, the street scenes… but just four girls to play some cat-and-mouse and shoot some social stuff with 'em too."

"But you just said nobody's gonna mob them," Chip reminded him.

"We'll hire extras. It doesn't have to be crazy, like here. Hey, it's Europe, they have more class, right? Anyway, it'll grab the kids' attention and look more exotic than…"

"Des Moines?" Bonnie piped up. "It scares me to say it, but I think it kinda works, Bob. But what do you mean by 'social stuff'? Like publicity?"

Bob looked as if she'd suggested they be sacrificed to some obscure god. "_No_, it's gonna be part of the episode! Four models, because they're cheaper than actresses and they don't have to speak anyway. Shoot some walks in the park, driving in the Monkeemobile, like that."

Now Bonnie, who also sketched out preliminary budgets for Bob's Brilliant Ideas, slapped her notebook shut. "Do you have any idea how much it would cost to fly that tarted up hot rod to _France_? Take the unicycles, they're easier to pack. Better yet, stick to local stuff, Citroens, crap like that. Besides, it's more _exotic_, right?" She opened her notebook again and began writing madly. "Okay, I'll need to contact the Parisian film board, look for a decent hotel that won't break the bank, find a modeling agency that also won't break the bank…"

"Wow. Girls catch up with them and they don't get ripped to shreds... sure we're not writing for the Twilight Zone?" See No Rewrite quipped.

"Ha, ha wiseass. And Bonnie, I got that covered," Bob told them.

Bonnie was astounded. "_Already?_"

"Yeah, my driver gave me a tip."

Another round of blank stares, some more alarmed than others.

"Your driver," Bonnie intoned. "Henri? The guy from Montreal? Bob, he's not even _French_!"

"Hey, he's been with me for years. His cousin, by the way, does talent work in Paris. He gave me the name of an agency to call."

"Bob," Chip reminded him. "You don't speak French."

"He barely speaks _English_," Speak No Rewrite mumbled to his companions.

"I heard that, Marty. Henri made the call, he took the notes, they're right here. We're all set. Four women, and a bargain for a day's worth of shooting."

"Lemme see that," Bonnie reached for the papers in Bob's hands.

"They're partly in French, babe, but he explained it all."

"_Donnez les-moi!_" she demanded. "That means, hand 'em over."

"You speak French? You never told me you spoke French!" Bob exclaimed as she shrugged.

"Wasn't in the job description. So…?" He handed her the documents, and she read through the sloppy handwriting. "Is this the name of the 'agency'? _Filles des Nuit Accompagnement_?" She dropped her head into her hands. "What did Henri tell you it was?"

"I told him we needed an agency to provide women to go with the guys on the shoot. Nice looking, like you'd take on a date."

"Bob. How do I say this? It sounds like he set you up with an escort service. _Accompagnement_ means escort."

"He said it meant company."

"He probably meant 'companion', that kind of company. And Jesus, Bob, '_Filles des Nuits_'? I don't guess he translated that for you."

"No, he just said it was the name… why?"

Now Bonnie burst out laughing. "Evening Ladies… ladies of the evening? Evening Ladies Escort." She was laughing so hard she couldn't breathe, and the others joined in as Bob sat in stunned silence. "Okay, okay," Bonnie struggled back into control. "I guess ol' Henri thought he was giving you what you wanted… some female companionship between shooting, or something." She lost it all over again.

Bob tried to re-assert his authority. "If you all would mind getting a grip?"

"I'm sorry, man," Bonnie gasped, "but it's too perfect. Fake fans, fake mob scenes, and _real _French hookers… hey if you're gonna _pay_ for what they can get for free anywhere else, why not go all the way?"

After letting them laugh themselves out, Bob turned to Bonnie. "Can you fix it?"

"_Bi__é__n s__û__r_. That means hell yeah, more or less. Who's your contact?" She searched the notes and found a name and Paris phone number. "'Madame Janelle Duvalier'. I'll bet she is."

"Are you sure you can take care of this?" Chip asked. He was the kind of guy who, while everyone around him was going apeshit, had a healthy desire to keep things from spinning out of control.

"_Mai oui… vous avez besoin d'on qui parler Francais. Cette person … c'est moi!_"

"Okay, okay," Bob interrupted in impatience, "just take care of it. We're through here, we'll meet again when Bonnie has this crap straightened out."

She loved how he said "this crap" as if it had just fallen from the sky. "Hey Bob, this'd make _great_ backstory for the episode! Pleeeeze can I leak it?"

Bob's expression darkened. "You do, and there'll be another ad in the paper," he threatened. "Right _after _your funeral notice."

Smiling sweetly, Bonnie skipped merrily past Bob, inventing an on-the-spot parody of the old French kiddie song: _"Fr__é__re Robert, Fr__é__re Robert, patron fous, patron fous..."_

Madame Janelle Duvalier… seriously, how hard could it be to break a non-contract with a French madame?

* * *

**A/N Interpretation below for the French-impaired:**

"_Mai oui… vous avez besoin d'on qui parler Francais. Cette person … c'est moi!_": "But yes… you need someone who can speak French. That someone is… me!"

"_Fr__é__re Robert, Fr__é__re Robert, patron fous, patron fous..."_: "Brother Robert, Brother Robert, crazy boss, crazy boss…"


	3. Don't call on me

"Let me see if I got this straight… we're going to Paris to do the same shit we do on the set… run around in circles. Except with no story, and no lines." Mike was not pleased, but that was no surprise. The others weren't exactly wild about the idea, either.

Bonnie looked at her outlines and schedules, trying to figure out how to put a better face on it. It was hard, considering she agreed with the guys. At least she did when she had to face them, whereas the day before she'd been almost in agreement with Bob... almost. What sounded potentially not so bad in the production meeting suddenly seemed nine kinds of lame when she had to sell it to the four who'd have to be doing all the running in circles for a fake vacation running from fake fan mobs, and fake sightseeing with fake dates.

"Look," she appealed, "you're gonna get paid to _sightsee_. You're flying first class, staying at a first class hotel, and you're getting _paid_ to do it. The people who chase you will be paid extras, so you don't have to run any faster than you _want_ to because if you get caught we'll just yell 'cut'. And no lines to run or rehearse. The writers are gonna work up a scenario, but it'll be all improv once we hit the locations."

"Sightsee?" Davy griped, "Nice try, but we know what sights we'll bloody see… cameras and Bob. Like bloody always."

"Guys, please…"

"Well maybe we can politely 'opt out', you can do some location filming and then come back and work us in," Peter suggested. "Y'know, treat it like one of those separate deals, like a network special." The others nodded.

She knew what he meant. "Peter, this isn't a movie, or a special, it's a regularly scheduled episode, just a different location. Part of your basic contract. You can't opt out, it's written in stone, regular season." Looking at the four unsmiling faces she became impatient. "Jesus, guys, you'd think you were being dragged to work in the salt mines in India! It's ten days in _Paris_, and you know you won't be shooting round the clock! When Chip and Bob and tech and Genie and me are working on locations and scheduling and costume plans day by day, you can do what you like. For fucksake…" she trailed off, looking down at her papers again.

Silent until now, Micky spoke up. "Wow, Bonnie's getting a nasty mouth. She must mean business."

She stared at him and her voice took on an edge.

"Y'know, Mick, any time you want out it'll only cost you the balance of the contract you stood in line to sign. Same goes for _all_ of you."

Having spent the past three days working nonstop on transatlantic contracts, hotel and flight bookings, and disentangling them all from Bob's stupid arrangements with Madame Duvalier, Bonnie was sleep deprived and had no patience left to placate any whining. She continued testily, "Bob wanted to keep all this on paper, just give you the memos, but I said 'nah, that's pretty lame. They deserve a face-to-face description of what's gonna happen.' Maybe I was wrong. You're obviously not getting anything out of this and you can bet your offended-artist asses neither am I. Have your passports on my desk by tomorrow morning at ten. If you need a new one or they're up for renewal, tell me by the end of the day today. We leave Thursday morning, so make whatever arrangements you need to for your houses and pets and various female companions. Oh, and I forgot to add, that part of this shoot will be pairing you off with girls for what Bob's calling 'social stuff'. The general chase is going to narrow down to four girls."

Now Davy perked up. "Where you going to find them?"

"I've set up a meeting with a modeling agency the day we arrive."

"Do we get to pick 'em?" Micky asked with more enthusiasm than he'd shown for anything in the past week.

"You must think I'm high," Bonnie responded in a flat voice. Mike, who had been sitting silent as a tomb and just as stony, barked a short laugh.

"Well I am _not_ high," she continued, "though God knows you have me wishing I were. Genie and I are gonna interview and pick the models, to match with you looks-and-style-wise." When she paused and ran a weary hand over her eyes, Davy, Micky and Peter exchanged (almost) guilty looks. "Look. I'm trying really hard to make this as easy as possible for everyone. Seriously, if you will just lighten up it might even be a little fun. I'm gonna try really hard to make that happen, too."

"Better not tell Bob about _that_," Peter cracked.

"Yeah, well… good point." She looked all of them in the eye, one by one. "Like the song says, I ain't too proud to beg… and I'm _begging_ you not to make this any harder than it has to be, okay? You know I always do whatever I can for you, and like Nesmith said, you'll be doing pretty much the same shit you do on the set. But you'll be staying at a high class hotel and not being mauled, not memorizing nonsensical lines, and _not_ pretending to play gigs for the camera."

"Which begs the question… no dialogue, then what's the sound track?" Mike asked.

_Oh crap._She was hoping to avoid the topic until later. "What else… Monkees music. Stuff that hasn't hit the singles charts yet."

"Lemme guess," Mike faux-mused, turning up the drawl like he always did when he was about to be sarcastic, "while you're here dodging our slings and arrows, Bob and Donnie boy are meeting to pick out the songs, and if we're lucky we'll find out what they are in time to lay down the vocal tracks before the show hits the air."

As she took in his challenging expression, Bonnie realized that her newly-intimate relationship with Nesmith came with an unexpected bonus: she was no longer the least bit intimidated by his attitude.

"Right, and wrong. Yeah they're meeting. But Chip's there too, and he knows who's had more input on which songs that haven't charted yet, and so do I. So I also know what to push and what to lean back from, and Chip and I have already agreed to work the songs with the scenarios, so the writers are in on it too. And before anybody laughs, let me tell you without going into detail, I helped pull Bob's nuts out of the fire this week. Which means that at the _moment_ anyway he likes me _more_ than he likes Kirshner. If we handle it right, he'll listen."

Micky sat back from the table and smiled. "And who knows better how to handle Bob than the one person that stands between him and hard work?"

"Uh-uh, not like that," Bonnie warned. "He's my boss, too, and if I push too hard he will remind me of it just like he reminds you guys."

Mike smiled knowingly. "But crafty persuasion… _that_ you're pretty good at."

She smiled a little bit smugly. "I have my moments. Okay, now do any of you speak French?" Four matching headshakes negative, though Mike volunteered, "_Yo hablo Español._"

"Find me a Texan who _doesn't_ speak Spanish," Micky muttered.

"I heard that, Circus Boy."

"Anyway," Bonnie interrupted, "Genie and I will try to find some girls _qui_ _parlent Anglais_, that is, they'll speak English. Just remember they're models, not fans." She laughed to herself.

"What?" Davy wanted to know.

"Well… Bob would kill me if I told you this, but the first 'agency' he contacted, I mean that his _driver_ contacted, was actually a, well, kind of a take-out whorehouse. 'Madame' meaning madam."

Micky and Peter were aghast.

"You mean you _shut down_ his deal for French hookers so you could hire _models_?" Micky gaped. "I don't think I like you at _all_ any more."

Bonnie collected her stuff and got up from the table. "You just got another royalty check, hire your own hookers." She shook her head and laughed. "Bright boy, Dolenz. You expect us to pay for what you get for free anytime you want."

"Oh, well, yeah but _they're_ amateurs," he sniffed.

"Maybe _yours_ are," Davy snickered.

"Much as I'd love to hear you compare bullshit - I mean _notes_ - we're done here. Passports, my desk, by tomorrow morning at ten," she reminded them and headed off to her office.

* * *

She was just in the office door when Mike caught up with her. _"Somebody_ needs a little sugar."

"Yeah well I got none left, cowboy." They hadn't seen each other off the set for nearly a week, and precious little at work. The truth was she was in desperate need of that strange, magic space that grew around them whenever they were alone together.

He stepped in after her and pulled her back. "I was talkin' about you."

She turned to look at him with a sigh. "There's not enough sugar in the world to help right now."

"Well give a guy a chance, will ya?" He leaned down and kissed her once, then again, and a third time on top of her head, then stood looking down at her with eyebrows raised. She managed a weak smile.

"Guess you're wondering why I didn't lighten up back there?" he asked.

She went to sit at her desk and pulled out the file with the airline tickets and itineraries, then looked up at him and offered a slightly distracted smile.

"Please Nesmith, gimme some credit, will you? We're still the same people we were before we stumbled into each other. I for one intend to do my job exactly the same way as before, which includes expecting a hard time from you, _also_ for the same reasons as before."

He shut the door behind him with a suggestive smile.

"_Actually_, it's because that look you get when you're ready to blow is a real turn-on." It was a way to apologize without getting bogged down in I-said-but-I-meant on both sides. Rewarded by the thump of her forehead as she dropped it forward onto the desk, he added, "Oh, yeah, and that other thing too."

Bonnie sat up and pointed to the door. "I have _so _much shit to get done by Thursday. Get out of my office or I'll call security."

Mike spotted the advertising brochure from the French modeling agency peeking out of a pile of papers on Bonnie's desk. He pulled it out and tossed it on top of the pile, then winked as he opened the door to leave.

"Make sure you pick me a tall one, Morris, I'm getting a crick in my neck from having to bend down all the time."

As he went out the door Bonnie advised, "You are absolutely not getting laid this week, Nesmith."

The door opened again, and Mike leaned in. "Not for _free_, anyway." The door slammed again.

She reached for the phone to call the Paris hotel to give them more details on the rooms and the required service, including a ban on all press unless scheduled by her or _Monsieur_ Rafelson. Something told her that in their off time, the guys were not gonna be sitting in their suite playing bridge.

"_Sacre merde,_" she muttered under her breath and stared toward the ceiling, "_Me redonner_ _force_..._ je vais l'en avoir besoin._"

* * *

_"Sacre merde... Me redonner force, je vais l'en avoir besoin." -_ "Holy shit... give me strength, I'm gonna need it."


	4. Forget that girl

It had gone pretty well, considering. Chip and his few tech crew had flown out on Wednesday to set up with the Parisian film people and to get specs for the locations they'd settled on. Bonnie had booked herself, Bob, Genie, and the guys on the Thursday flight. She'd considered a charter but the expenses on Bob's little genius episode were beginning to look like they'd outrun the benefits (if there were any), so instead they had First Class on a nonstop commercial flight, with the promise of early, private boarding to avoid any mob scenes. At present they were hanging out in the VIP lounge waiting for their flight to be called.

"Here's your passports and tickets guys, after you board just give back whatever's left over."

"We're not bloody children, Bonnie," Davy complained.

"No, David, you're not. I think children would show a little more respect? Anyway, better to have it all with one person, that way if anything gets lost it's all together and we can just sort the whole disaster with the Embassy."

Peter looked up from his book, and suggested brightly, "And that way Bob will know who to kill right away."

As she handed Micky his papers, he pulled her into his lap. "See, guys, she'll gladly sacrifice her life for us, the men of her dreams."

She stared at him for a second and responded in a monotone, "Of course I will. Now turn me loose before I smack your head."

He pushed her out of his lap and covered his head with both arms. "Why won't Bob make you _stop_ that?" he whined.

"_**Because it's in her contract**_," the other three announced in unison, only momentarily distracted from what they were doing. Davy was reading a horse racing magazine, Peter was absorbed in a book of Zen philosophy, and Mike was restringing the newly customized Gretsch twelve-string that he refused to let out of his sight. They all waved off the lounge hostess who'd just brought out a fresh pot of coffee.

"Over here," Bonnie beckoned, "and keep it coming."

"Jesus, Morris, take it easy on that stuff or you'll be racing us to Paris," Mike warned, and reached up to pull her from her pacing onto the sofa beside him.

"Easy for you to say, I've slept maybe 4 hours since Monday night." She looked at her watch, then at the clock on the wall. "Where the hell is Bob, anyway?" So far their flight was on time for departure at eleven a.m., an hour away. It wasn't like Bob to be the last one in.

"Relax, he's in charge, he'll show up."

"Michael's right, Bonnie, "Genie stepped in to offer some support. "You'll never sleep on the flight if you don't stop the coffee."

"I'm fine. I'll sleep after the meeting."

"Huh? _What_ meeting?" Mike asked Genie.

"Don't worry, Nesmith, it's just Genie and me, soon as we drop our gear at the hotel we're going to that agency _Monde des Modes_. Interview the models, sign the contracts, then I'm free until Saturday."

Not caring what Genie thought of it, Mike leaned closer to Bonnie and stilled her rapidly bouncing knee with a gentle hand.

"Baby, you gotta _stop_. I know you're not kiddin' when you say you haven't slept, I know you've been on a steady diet of work and coffee since the weekend."

She pushed his hand away. "Thanks mom, I'll be okay."

"Fine. Don't listen, you never do anyway." Mike got up and took his guitar-stringing to another cush armchair on the other side of the lounge.

When Bob came through the door Bonnie called to him, "Nice you could make it." The others grimaced in disappointment, their opening lines stolen.

"Had to pick somebody up," he explained, and stood aside to usher in a young woman.

A _very_ young woman, obviously younger than twenty. Dressed in the mod-est of magazine mod attire: shiny black leather mini skirt, paisley blouse, and black knee-high boots. She had a cloud of curly dark hair more-or-less tamed with a wide scarf tied round it like a headband, its long ends draped over one shoulder. And love beads… _lots_ of love beads. The sharply hip couture was contrasted by her cherubic face. The meticulously applied eye makeup (Biba, for sure) made the wide blue eyes look even bigger.

"This is Pam Saunders," Bob went on. Only a few eyes flickered in his direction until he added, "She's going to cover the shoot for Sixteen."

Bonnie shot a horrified look at Genie, who didn't look much more pleased. The guys were wearing "oh, _shit_" looks. Except for Davy, who looked as if he'd just been given a present.

"Nice piece o' crumpet, eh?" he said quietly, though not quietly enough for Genie and Bonnie to miss it. Genie turned on him.

"Oi, nice piece o' dead bloke, y'pervo, if you try to make her," she hissed. Davy raised his hands in surrender and returned to his magazine.

By this time Bonnie was up out of her chair and standing in front of Bob and the newcomer.

"I thought I had an in on all the contests," she asked Bob, all but ignoring the fresh-faced Pam. "No offense, honey," she directed at girl, "it's just that I juggle a lot of logistics and you weren't one of them, until now."

"No contest, babe," Bob told her, blithely unconcerned as usual. "We just thought it might be a good tie-in for the show. Pam's 'behind the scenes' piece will run before the show airs."

_This cannot be happening. It's just sleep deprivation, it's damaged my perception of reality._ Bonnie shut her eyes for a second and shook her head, hoping to clear it, and opened her eyes again. No dice. Bob and Little Mary Sunshine were still there.

"Excuse us for a minute, honey, will ya?" Bonnie grabbed Bob's sleeve and dragged him over to the alcove near the staff access door. "Have you lost your _mind_?" she demanded. "This isn't gonna be a couple hours on the set. It's the whole down and dirty, twenty four hours a day."

"Calm down, will you?" Bob patted her shoulder. "We have final edit power. Besides, you can keep her out of the way of the 'down and dirty' when shooting's done. A couple dinners with the guys and us, and the rest of her access will be very structured."

"You do know that they are already borderline pissed off over this trip, right? I promised them that whatever free time there is, is theirs. Only two press calls, with Paris offices of US media. This kid'll be an albatross around their… hey _wait_ a minute." Her eyes narrowed. "What do you mean 'you' can keep her out of the way? Does that mean _me_?"

"Part of the job, babe."

She thought her head would explode. "And where do you propose she stay?" His look made it plain. "Oh, no, she is _not_ gonna be in my room! With everything that's gonna be happening I am not gonna be fit company for a… how old is she, anyway?"

"Nineteen. _Out _of high school, by the way, and racking up points to get into a journalism program at UCLA."

"By doing a bit for Sixteen… that's a hot one. Anyway, I absolutely refuse to share my room with Alice in Monkeeland. End of discussion."

Suddenly Bob leaned down close, lowered his voice, and advised, "It won't _kill_ you and Nesmith to take a break, for christsake."

Bonnie could feel her eyes bug out in disbelief. "What the hell are you implying."

Now he was laughing, though it was something of an offended laugh. "You must really think I'm a prime moron. That morning a few weeks ago when I called and you were at his pad… 'guest room' my ass. As if that contrary hermit would even _have_ a guest room."

"Why didn't you say anything? Why haven't you since then?" She really was confused, and the coffee wasn't helping.

"This may come as a surprise to you but _I don't give a shit_, okay? And, as long as you keep your hands off each other in front of the press and in public, and it seems you've been pretty good at that, I will continue not to give a shit. Though I imagine if you share that secret with Nesmith he will make it his personal mission to jump you every time a camera is around just to show me who he _thinks_ is boss."

She had to admit, he was right about that one. "Well thanks, I guess."

"Oh, don't thank me. He's the king of melodrama with a tortured-artist complex. It's your funeral. _But_… if I even _think_ it is affecting your work, if I even have a bad _dream_ about it, it's gonna stop, or you're gonna be gone. Don't get me wrong, Bonnie, I can't think of anyone who could handle this circus and those clowns… okay, and work with me, too… better. But business is business, and I won't let hormones fuck it up. As for him… well he's actually been a little easier to deal with lately. So whatever you've been doing, keep it up."

She smirked. "Gee, thanks Yenta. And I guess we agree on some things, as in business is business. But I still don't like this kid coming along, she is not gonna get the story she expects even if everything goes perfectly. _As if_ that's gonna happen. Most of the on-location stuff will be plain boring. And the rest… all bets are off."

"Well just in case you were wondering, I talked to the Sixteen features editor. Yeah, believe it or not, they have one of those at that teenybopper fantasy rag. I told her that if anything gets published, there or anywhere else, that isn't fit for market consumption, Raybert and Colgems will sue them dry. She passed that on to Alice in Monkeeland." After a moment of mutually unsatisfying stare-down, Bob stepped back and huffed an exaggerated sigh. "Can we get back to normal now? Or what passes for it around here?" He really was asking.

Her sigh matched his own. "Yeah. But I still don't want her in my room."

"You're the only one with two beds, I checked your reservations list. Luck of the draw. Besides, you'll know how to steer her. You're good at that kinda thing. Except don't smack her on the head like you do with Micky, okay?"

Their periodic dance of disturbance concluded, Bonnie went to where Pam was still standing where Bob had left her. Even Davy seemed to have forgotten her presence.

"Well come on and meet everyone. We won't bite unless we find out you taste good." She knew she didn't sound any more enthusiastic than she felt.

Pam giggled a little nervously at the joke, then inquired honestly, "You don't want me here, do you?"

"Nope, I don't. Don't take it personally… I just don't think extended location shoots and fan magazines are a good mix. It's not going to be the usual lighthearted behind the scenes thing. This just isn't all fun and games, and I think you might be disappointed and maybe disillusioned, and that's not a good thing for anyone."

"I guess you just think it's silly teenybopper stuff."

"No, that's not it… I mean, we all see the Sixteen and Tiger Beat articles, the 'what kind of girl Davy likes' and 'ten things Micky wants for Christmas', the 'Monkees look' fashion stuff, and it's fine, it's great, even, it supports the guys and the concerts and records and the show and all that. But just once I'd like to see somebody, anybody, make a passing swipe at how _hard_ these guys work to look like they're always having fun, you know? Not a deep dark bummer, but maybe just in with the 'cute and zany' throw in some of what happens _before_ the cute and zany that you see on the tube. Instead of asking them 'what's it feel like to be a Monkee', maybe once ask them, I dunno, 'what's it feel like when you're _not_ being a Monkee.' The answers might actually be more interesting than somebody's favorite color." She stopped, and misunderstood Pam's expression as either confusion or offense. "I'm sorry, I haven't slept in like _days_, and I think my brain is fried."

The cloud of dark curls danced as Pam shook her head. "No, I think maybe I get it. I think it'll be good for fans to see how hard the Monkees work, it will make them appreciate them more. And I think they'll be interested in seeing some of what really makes the show happen, too. How they pick the locations, what has to happen before and after. Hey, I'm paid to be here for ten days, it can't all be interviews, right?"

"Oh my god, I am glad to hear that. Because I'm only really gonna demand one thing rule-wise, that when you approach anyone with an interview-type question, if they even _look_ like they're not in the mood, believe it and walk away. Because at the end of some of these long days, and even at the beginning, sometimes there is not enough left inside to make nice with. So if you push it, you'll end up with something you didn't want and something they really didn't want to leave you with. Nobody here _wants_ to be a pain in the ass, but there are times when we just can't do any better."

"Okay. When in doubt, I'll back off." Pam smiled at Bonnie. "I really _do_ want to write something different. I don't want to be one of those contest winners."

"Shit, I'm sorry about that… oh great, listen to me… that reminds me, one last thing, I hope you aren't offended by, er, rustic language?"

The younger girl laughed. "I have three older brothers. And for the article, I can paraphrase with the best of them. Oh, and another thing, I'm sorry about the room thing, I really don't want to get in your way, _you_ know…" She looked pointedly toward where Mike was sullenly reading.

Bonnie gaped at the kid. "So tell me, is there anyone that _doesn't_ know?"

"Well I overheard you and Mr. Rafelson talking… you weren't really all that quiet. Don't worry, my boss had that talk with me, so that kind of 'scoop' isn't worth it. And my idea of 'behind the scenes', well, it's not _that_ far behind the scenes, you know what I mean? Anyway, I don't need a babysitter."

"I guess you don't, do you?" Bonnie almost fell to her knees with relief. "Okay, c'mon and I'll introduce you. They really are nice guys. We all started the job on the same day pretty much, so they're kinda like weirdo family that I get paid to put up with."

When they got to where everyone was draped across the furniture in pools of impatience, Bonnie announced, "Like Bob said, but I know you never listen to him, this here is Pam Saunders. She's gonna be writing about the shoot."

"For a fan magazine?" Micky asked.

"No, genius, for the Wall Street Journal," Mike muttered, _very_ much not under his breath, not bothering to look up as he locked his restrung Gretsch away in its case.

Ignoring the Rude Mr. Nesmith, Pam turned to Bonnie. "I guess this is the beginning of one of those long days you told me about, huh?"

"You know it. Act accordingly."

"You're giving away our secrets?" Micky jumped up and did his terrible Cagney impression. "Hmmm… looks like she knows too much already."

Just then, their early boarding was called, and a stewardess appeared to take them on their private route to the plane.

"Don't forget, gimme your passports and documents back after we board. I _know_ where to find you. That goes for you too, hand it over after we board," she told Pam, who had been fishing in her purse for her passport.

"You don't have to, I can handle it."

To Bonnie's surprise, Mike spoke to Pam as he passed on the way to the gate. "Better not to argue, saves time because you'll lose anyway. Rest of us had to learn the hard way."

* * *

Bonnie and Pam were the last ones into the spacious first class cabin; one of their two personal stewardesses securely closed the heavy curtain that separated them from the rest of the passengers. Genie was perched on the arm of Bob's seat. The group broke up quickly as the two latecomers joined them. Everyone set about staking out areas to settle in for the long, nonstop flight.

"You ever get the feeling someone's been talking about you?" Bonnie asked nobody in particular, but got no response. "Make yourself comfortable, Pam." Genie took her in hand as Bonnie set about collecting passports and ticket folders from everyone, even Bob, and put them in her briefcase. When she got to the last row where Nesmith had set up his corner, she said the same thing as she had to the others, "Passport."

He looked up from his "Car and Driver" magazine and asked, "What's it worth to you?"

"C'mon, just gimme, okay?" She ran a hand over her face, too blind with fatigue to banter.

He reached into his jacket pocket and held out the passport, pulling it back when she leaned in to take it.

"Hey, hey, what do _I_ get?"

"How about I let you live to see Paris. Nesmith, c'mon," she pleaded, "Now is not the time." She nodded to indicate the obvious… they were not alone.

"Uh-uh baby, this little invitation to world travel is gonna cost you some sugar." He slipped his shades up so she could see he meant business.

"_Jesus H. Christ_, Nesmith, are you crazy?"

This time when she reached for the passport he deftly took her briefcase and dumped it on the floor, then grabbed her wrist to pull her into the seat next to him, and from there into his arms.

"Yes ma'am, crazier than a loon. Must be the company I keep." Before she could slip his grasp, he wrapped one hand around the back of her head and kissed her. "And one more, 'cause you argued about the price," he drawled in that honey-rich voice that drove her crazy, and this time she didn't fight it even a little. When he broke the kiss at last, he pressed his lips to her ear. "Relax, Morris, everybody knows."

She sat back in shock. "Everybody?"

"Well everybody _here_," he indicated their six companions scattered around the cabin and minding their own affairs. "Bob figured he'd head off loose talk... hate to admit it, but a smart move. Sheeyit, we're too old to sneak around like dirty little kids and anyway, seems most everyone but your little Lois Lane figured it out already, and _she_ has been sworn to silence."

She was finding it harder and harder to process even simple stuff, so she just asked.

"Is it me, or is this day getting more and more strange? Bob thinks there's a magic force field around First Class, and nothing is gonna get out to make the press drive me crazy?" She glanced back at all the others. "I don't know if I believe that."

"Well for question one, I can't say, since _your_ day started three days go." He brushed back her hair, and looked closely into her bloodshot eyes. "But since you can't shoot 'em all to shut 'em up, why don't you just settle down and get some z's before you drive _all_ of us crazy?" He pulled her sideways to tuck her under his arm and stuck a pillow under her head, then grabbed one for himself to lean against the window.

"I'll just put this in a safe place," he told her and reached into the neck of her shirt to slip his passport inside her bra. Giving her breast an affectionate squeeze, he headed off her weary protest with, "To my knowledge I am the only one who goes there."

"Not for another ten days you won't," she mumbled unhappily. She was wound up by everything she needed to pay attention to, including whether or not their connection (she still couldn't define it well enough to call it a "relationship") would bring on too much public reaction. But she was burnt out, and he was so easy to be with... surrounded by his warmth and the smell of Ivory soap, she snuggled closer and fell asleep.

* * *

Bob paused on his way back from the rest room and took a look at the nearest row where Bonnie lay curled up sleeping in Mike's arms.

"How's she doing?"

"How do ya think she's doing, Bob?" Mike returned in a harsh whisper, his tone rising and falling sarcastically. "Ain't slept in three days playing ringmaster to your circus."

"I didn't _tell_ her to do that."

The dark head nodded sharply and the sunglasses came down, the universally recognized gesture of Mike Nesmith's disdain for... whatever was pissing him off at the moment.

"Well you didn't tell her _not_ to either."

Bob laid a hand on the back of Mike's seat and leaned closer. "She's a grown woman, Mike, I don't tell her how to run her life. Which is why everyone got that little lecture on her private life. I did that for her, and yeah for me too, and not to make it easier for _you_ to get laid. Just so we're clear."

"Crystal." Mike could feel his temper heating. If he hadn't had an armful of Bonnie there'd be hell to pay and he knew that Bob knew it. "Man..." he caught himself before his voice could rise. "What you don't know could fill the Grand Canyon. But thanks anyway." He almost choked on the words, but knew that Bob really _had_ done him a favor too, without knowing it.

"My pleasure. Don't make me regret it."

As Bob returned to his seat Mike looked down at Bonnie, who had stirred a little and murmured wordlessly.

"Wouldn't give you the satisfaction, asshole," he grumbled over his shoulder. Then he rearranged his pillow and slouched sideways against the window to try to sleep. He had plans of his own to take care of when they arrived in Paris.


	5. Hold on, girl

Bonnie woke with a start, almost knocking Mike's magazine out of his hand.

"Whoa, hey there. You back already? That wasn't much of a nap."

She tried to sit up, but he reached an arm across her to keep her where she was, lying across the seats with her head in his lap.

"What time is it?" she asked in a fuzzy voice.

He glanced at his watch. "Beats the hell outta me, I'm still on L.A. time. Pilot said we just flew over Labrador. Got another five hours yet." She looked disoriented and a little upset, so he stroked a hand over her forehead and asked, "What slapped you awake like that? Bad dream?"

It took a minute or two to re-form in her head. "No, a nice one, actually. We were in a club in the Village, just listening. You got up and jammed with somebody…" She reached up to touch Mike's face and added a little wistfully, "You looked so _happy_."

He smiled down at her, and ran his thumb back and forth between her eyebrows. "Did I get to jam with Benny?"

"He wasn't there. Just you and me and the usual crowd, and Ari." She stopped suddenly, looking guilty. "How was Ari when you saw him? He was so good to Benny and me… I never even asked you."

"Hey, had other things on your mind, as I remember. He was great, he's a good guy. Gave me his number for when you're ready to call. He was in kind of a daddy-worried groove but I told him you're fine."

Her face warmed with a sleepy smile, and it was all he could do to hold himself back from tasting it. But she was feeling like talking, so he didn't want to stop her.

"I'll call him from Paris, that'll maybe make up for some things." she said, still smiling. "Oh, I think Peter was there too, in the dream. You guys just played whatever you wanted, and stopped when you felt like it, and all I had to do was sit and listen… somebody else was handling everything."

"Tell me who," Mike laughed softly, "we'll get Bob to hire her to help you."

"Really, it was so great, even if it was just a dream," her expression turned mischievous, "I even sat in your lap, in public. Flashbulbs everywhere, but nobody had a camera, which was weird. Anyway we didn't give a shit. I think Genie was sitting in Peter's lap too, don't know where I came up with that."

Mike could swear she was about to giggle, but then her smile disappeared as if a plug had been pulled. He tapped the corner of her mouth with one finger.

"It sounds like a really groovy dream, why the sad face?"

"I woke up to the real world... nobody's happy here." She stared up at the sweet face and serious brown eyes, struggling to keep tears out of her own. _Why am I always on the verge of tears lately?_

He answered her unasked question. "C'mon now... you're just burnt out, everything is a drag when you feel like that. Some good food, some good sleep, some good lovin' from yours truly, you'll be as good as new."

She reached up to hug around his neck. "I know. I do this to myself, I'm so afraid of falling behind." Mike didn't answer, just hugged her tightly in return and kissed her head. She pulled back a little and confided, wide-eyed, in an uncertain voice, "Sometimes I just want to _quit_, y'know? I know I can't, none of us can. That'd be stupid. But times like this, I _wanna_ quit so _bad_."

"Me too." He gave her another kiss and she lay down again on the pillow in his lap. This time when she looked up, her eyes were brimming with tears.

"I'm so_ tired_, Michael, I don't know what to do." She didn't even notice she'd used his first name, but he did. She closed her eyes as she felt his long fingers tangle in her hair, stroking gently.

"Here's what, go back to sleep, and have one of those nice dreams for both of us." He kept running his fingers back and forth through Bonnie's hair until she drifted off. When he looked up again he saw Genie, who'd paused on her way back to her seat.

"The game's up, Michael," she told him with the hint of a smile.

"Huh?"

"You're not the bastard you try to play." Then she leaned closer and whispered, "It's good she has you."

"Jury's out on that, but I'm tryin'... this time I _am_ tryin'."


	6. Early Morning Blues and Greens

_8am, __Monde des Modes_

Colette, Jaclyn, Michelle, Juliette: brunette, blonde, redhead, and blonde, respectively. All of them poised, twenty-something, and of course attractive.

"_Bonjour mes demoiselles. Je pense que vous seriez perfert pour nos besoins_."

The four young women smiled, per their training, but only one spoke up.

"_Je m'appelle Colette_." She paused, and spoke again in English. "My name is Colette. Your French is very good, but it may be easier to speak in English, d'accord?"

Bonnie nodded, greatly pleased that her skills wouldn't be too strained. Genie, on the other hand, was fairly faint with relief.

"_D'accord, et merci_. You four ladies appear to be most appropriate for our filming. I hope you understand that while you're hired to be in a television episode, you will not be required to speak dialogue, _n'est-ce pas_?"

Jaclyn spoke up, "Yes, we understand. That will make our work easier, if that does not offend you?"

"Not at all," Bonnie looked at Genie, and both of them smiled. "It will make _everyone's_ work easier!"

"I've designed the outfits you'll be wearing," Genie explained. "Later on this afternoon I'll bring them all here to your studios for fitting and photos so we can review them with the costuming photos we have of the boys."

"These 'boys'," Michelle asked, "we will meet them before the shooting? It is not just posing, so I think it is good if we know them a little bit first."

"Exactly what we had in mind," Bonnie told them. "In fact you'll be coming back to the hotel with us now; we have a conference room reserved. We will 'match' you up according to how you look, but we'll all be spending a great deal of time together for the next week so it makes sense to get acquainted."

Genie leaned over and whispered in her ear, "A bit awkward, but I think we should say something about, well, possible 'social complications'?"

"Oh, right." Bonnie addressed the four models. "You're all lovely ladies and I imagine you've had your share of clients who'd like a little more personal time with you. The guys you'll be working with understand this is all professional business, but I want you to know that if they do ask you out socially, you can feel free to say no. Your work day ends when your contract says it does, and anything else is up to you."

"What she's saying," Genie added bluntly, "is blokes will be blokes, and if anyone gets out of line you can treat 'em like you would anyone else."

The four girls all laughed. "What is the saying, 'no sweat'?" Juliette assured Genie and Bonnie. "Let's go meet the 'blokes' and find out what we will be doing. For us, I think this will all be easy."

"From your mouth to God's ear, dearie," Genie muttered to Bonnie as they headed for the elevator.

* * *

Coffee and croissants had been set up by the hotel in a small, elegant meeting room. Bob, the guys, and Pam sat waiting in various stages of attentiveness. The slouching Monkees sat up a little straighter as Genie and Bonnie entered with the four French models. Micky and Davy showed particular enthusiasm.

"Okay, Bob, out," Bonnie ordered, pointing at him. "Pam, you can stay if you want."

"Huh? _Out?_" Bob wasn't too jet lagged to object to being ordered out of his own meeting.

"Yeah, out. Genie and I are going to handle this part, and the girls wanted to have a little meet and greet with the guys, because they are all gonna be working together for the next week. Better that they don't all start as _complete_ strangers."

"Fine, but…"

Genie cut him off. "This is part of the visuals we have been talking about, Bob, the 'visuals' that you hired me to take charge of. It goes beyond clothes, at least for this episode. And Bonnie and I would appreciate it if you trusted us with the jobs you're paying us to do." Her tone implied she would have no patience with arguments.

Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike sat back and waited for the explosion. Eight slightly bloodshot eyes widened in surprise when Bob caved without a fight.

"All right, all right, I guess this takes a 'woman's touch', huh? Fine, I'll go check in with Chip and the tech crew to go over the location logistics."

"Good boy," Bonnie whispered to herself.

"I _heard_ that," Bob warned. "but I'll let it slide." He turned to the models. "Ladies, welcome to my nightmare." With that, he swept out of the room.

Genie took over. "Okay mates, up against the wall," she ordered the guys.

"I think I had dream like this once," Micky told the others with a sly grin, then quickly shot a look at Bonnie. "Don't smack me, I'm going! Ladies, she is _mean_, I am warning you now." The French women laughed among themselves, but waited for direction from Genie and Bonnie.

Genie eyed the guys, then looked over the four models, who stood side by side for consideration. "God bless professionals," Genie told them gratefully. "Right, Bonnie, how about… Colette with David, she's a good height and color match. Jaclyn with Peter, Michelle with Micky. Juliette, you're a lovely tall girl, we'll match you with Michael."

"Yeah, that works fine." Bonnie was taking notes, and missed the subtle, smug smile Mike had directed at her when Genie mentioned 'tall'. His smile faded when he saw how utterly blank Bonnie looked.

"Hey Morris, you hangin' in okay?"

"Doing fine, you see a problem?" she asked a little testily. _I don't need a stinking babysitter._

"Pam," Mike turned to her without missing a beat, "didn't Morris here promise to tell you how she did the up front work on this shindig? Give you a little background for that article of yours… right?"

Pam looked puzzled at first, and then caught his drift. "Yeah, actually I almost forgot. Bonnie, can you take a few minutes now, before everything gets really busy? I'll just come up to your room and you can show me all those notes and outlines you told me about."

Bonnie was absolutely lost. "I don't know what…"

"Go on, I can handle this," Genie told her. "Besides if you get a hand on the coffee there won't be a drop left for the rest of us."

"Can't bail on Sixteen, that'd make _us_look very uncool." Mike emphasized. "Go on, give Pam a little inside material. Then catch some z's or you'll be too trashed to keep up with us."

Pam already was headed for the door. "C'mon, I won't have time later."

"Uh, okay. I'll catch up later, Genie."

"Great." Genie was ushering all the "matchups" into adjacent seats around the conference table as Bonnie and Pam made their exit.

* * *

"I'm sorry, I don't remember any of this," Bonnie was apologizing to Pam as they rode the elevator up to the floor she'd reserved for everyone.

"No, _I'm_ sorry," Pam replied sheepishly. "You didn't really promise me anything, but if you _want_ to tell me about all that up-front planning I'd love to include it in the article."

They stepped into the corridor as Bonnie asked, "So what's this all about, anyway?" She stopped at the room she'd reserved (for both of them, though she hadn't known that at the time).

"I'm not completely sure but I think it has something to do with you getting some rest before you fall apart. No offense, but you look kinda raggedy."

Bonnie gestured in exasperation, almost dropping her briefcase and notes. "Great, even you've joined the conspiracy. Okay, I can take a hint, I am unraveling from the inside out. Time to crash for awhile. Oh shit, I forgot to pick up my key. I mean _our_ keys."

"Your stuff's in that room." Pam pointed to the door on the opposite side of the hall and handed her a key. "Genie said she'd swap with you. Don't worry, I'm not offended. I think it's kinda sweet that you and Mike'll be able to get some time together. In _Paris_, too. That's so romantic."

Bonnie swallowed a laugh. "Honey you just sounded your age for the first time since you joined this circus. Nothing about this trip is gonna be even remotely 'romantic', I don't care where it is. And there's no guarantee there would be any time for that anyway. But thanks, and you should thank Genie too. I am not the most joyous person in the morning before I have my coffee." She opened the door to her new room, and stumbled in.

Pam stood frowning in the hallway, not liking Bonnie's blasé attitude one bit. Paris with someone you love (or like, or whatever they were in together) shouldn't be just business, that was just _wrong_. She trotted to the elevator to return to the conference room, where she hoped to catch Mike before the meeting broke up. He wasn't the friendliest sort, but she hoped that he'd be interested in what she had to tell him. This was turning out to be a much different trip than she'd imagined… and she'd already decided she didn't mind at all that she wouldn't be able to report on most of it.

* * *

"_Bonjour mes demoiselles. Je pense que vous seriez perfert pour nos besoins_." - Good morning, ladies. I think you'll be perfect for what we require.

_"D'accord, et merci." -_ Agreed, and thank you.

_n'est-ce pas - _Is that not so?


	7. Hard To Believe

_Colette and Davy_

"Well hello there, Colette, you do speak English, right?"

"Yes, David. _Davy_. This is a new type of job for me… I do not know exactly how to begin. If you ask me something about myself, maybe?"

_Nah, don't make a move yet… too obvious. There's a bit more time to get to that._ "Okay, that sounds groovy. Why don't you tell me why you went into modeling?" He was surprised to see her smile falter.

"I was going to go to university, to study. I wanted to become _une professeur._ Forgive me, to become a teacher, of small children."

Davy couldn't hide his surprise. "Really? A teacher? That's a bit different from posing for pictures, isn't it."

"Yes. But when my papa became ill he could not work, and I came to Paris to find a job so I could send money. I made a friend who knew someone from modeling, and as the Americans say, 'one thing led the way to another'."

Drawn in, Davy asked without thinking, "So your papa, he got better?"

"No, his illness was not one to get better from. I'm sorry, this is not the right thing to talk about. It has made you sad."

"No, Colette, it just made me think of me dad. He's not as young as he used to be. I went to America to make a name for myself, and left the family at home in Manchester."

"I think they must be very proud of you, yes?" She smiled gently at him. "So, we have found something in common. We both have loved our papas very much. I am glad to meet you, Davy."

Davy found himself extending his hand to be shaken, not (probably) slapped as often happened. "I'm glad to meet you too, Colette."

* * *

_Jaclyn and Peter_

"Hi Jaclyn, I'm Peter. Not sure what else I'm supposed to say."

"What do you say usually when you meet a girl?"

"Uhm… I don't know if that's a good idea to say right now."

"Peter, you are blushing! I think maybe you make jokes because you are shy."

"Maybe… I dunno."

"When I first had a fashion show, I was very shy about the people watching."

"Seriously? You're beautiful, what could make you shy about that?"

"I was afraid I would trip, or start to laugh. And I would look at others and be afraid I would not be as good as them."

"I can dig _that_. That's why I learned to play so many instruments… I figured if somebody was way better than me on one of them, I'd just play a different one. Pretty lame, I guess."

"Sorry, what is 'lame'?"

"Stupid."

"Oh. Not so stupid, really. You can play many instruments, because of being shy. You tell jokes, too. Me, now I think of music in my head, when I walk out or pose. It makes everything easier."

"I can dig _that_. Oh — dig means understand. Y'know, I think this might just work out this week."

"I think so too. We can both be shy, and not tell our secret ways of beating it."

* * *

_Michelle and Micky_

"I know who you are, Micky."

That was a surprise. "Really? Bob says nobody in France has heard of us."

"I go to England for fashion weeks. You are very well known there."

"So, what do you think of us?"

"Your music… I prefer not to listen to pop rock and roll."

"Oh. Oh well. What _do_ you like?"

"I like blues, and soul music. I _very much _like James Brown."

"Lady, we are gonna get along just _fine_."

* * *

_Juliette and Mike_

When Mike nodded a terse hello, the shades that had been perched on top of his head fell neatly into place.

"Look, we don't have to waste too much time on this. Fake vacation, fake chase, fake sightseeing dates. They told you all about that, right?"

"_Oui_. It is for your television show. It is not real."

"Great, okay then. Nice to meetcha and all, but I got some other things to take care of before tomorrow. Juliette, right?"

"Yes, Juliette. Do not worry, Mike, I am not looking for Romeo."

He'd been halfway out of his chair, but sat down again. "Now what made you say that?"

"You are worried about something, _n'est-ce pas?_ Is it not true? Sometimes maybe the women who are on your show cannot tell 'fake' from real, maybe they see something more when they do the scenes like we will be doing?"

"Oh, _that_. No, wasn't even thinking of that."

"Ah, then it _is_ the woman, Bonnie, who brought us here."

His eyes narrowed behind the dark lenses, and he looked over at Genie. She was absorbed in conversation with Pam, who had just returned.

"Some people talk too much."

The tall blonde shook her head, smiling. "No, it was not that. It was your words, your look when we came in. You care for her, yes?"

"And that's your business, why?" _This whole thing was a dumbass idea. _

"It is not my business. But I understand. When the world pays to look at us, it is hard to have our own lives. We must pretend that because we have what we wanted, it is enough. But it is not, not truly."

Mike slid his shades up on top of his head and looked closely at Juliette. "You always talk this way to strangers?"

The smile didn't waver. "Not always. But sometimes I cannot stop myself." After a pause she added, "If you want, I will tell Genie that I cannot do this job, that I have discovered a conflict of schedule. She will find another 'lovely tall girl'."

Mike could feel a smile pulling at him from inside. "Nah, that's okay. Bonnie'd have a fit if the schedule got thrown off. Besides, you're right about all of it. It's probably safer to keep someone like you on _our_ side."

* * *

The four girls collected their schedules from Genie and left.

"Okay boys, you're free until tomorrow at noon. We'll meet in the lobby for transport to the location."

"Where's that gonna be?" Micky wanted to know.

"Your guess is as good as mine, luv."

Business done, the guys got up to leave. Genie and Pam stood at the end of the table, looking like co-conspirators.

"Hold on a minute, Michael, can we have a word?" Genie called after Mike. "Pam's got a question for you."

He returned to the table, but the shades came down. "I hope this won't take long."

"Nope, just one question."

"And what's that?" He eyed Pam with an air of exaggerated patience.

"Do you or don't you agree, that ten days in Paris without romance should be considered a crime?"

They barely caught him as he jumped up and strode toward the door.

"Five minutes, Michael," Genie insisted as she dragged on his arm.

"Well they _better_ make sense," he warned.

Five minutes later, Mike's plans for Paris had been altered dramatically for the better. Though it killed him to admit it, Bob had been right. Some things _did_ demand "a woman's touch."


	8. I can't get her off my mind

Bonnie almost fell asleep in the shower, but managed to get her hair towel-dried and braided, and struggled into her tie dyed pajamas before falling into the fit-for-royalty bed in her super-deluxe room. This hotel was totally over-the-top for luxury, but she'd been able to get a deal. Even if the Monkees weren't well known in France (yet), Hollywood and American television were. The promise of future notoriety for ten days of "_les Monkees ont dormi ici_" was good for enough of a discount for them to be housed first-class right smack in middle of the city.

At the moment they could be in the bus terminal in Des Moines, for all Bonnie cared. She was clean, and there was a bed. Nothing else registered. She pulled the heavy drapes shut, and the room was flung into darkness. Feeling her way to the bed, she hauled down the coverlet, crawled to the dead center and passed out cold.

* * *

With a question from Pam, a little material guidance from Genie, and some direct assistance from the hotel concierge, Mike had things settled more quickly than he'd hoped, and far better than he could have managed on his own. By two p.m. Genie, with Pam in tow, had gone back to the modeling agency to finalize the costumes for the episode. Mike was left with nothing to do but get settled in the suite which would be his home-away-from-home for the next week or so. Intermittently of course, time and luck permitting. He sorted out his things in the bedroom he'd been assigned by default.

"It's not like you're gonna be spending much time here, mate, so you get the smallest one," Davy had announced when he arrived. He, Peter, and Micky were off to wander the streets for a while. The luxury of _not_ risking life and limb by doing so in broad daylight was something they couldn't get enough of, and they intended to indulge as much as possible.

Mike's room was smaller than the others, sure, but still pretty high-end, with a huge bed and classy period-style furniture. He stacked his guitar cases by the mahogany wardrobe before hanging things up and putting things in drawers. He tossed his shaving kit on the bed without opening it, planning to leave that in Bonnie's room. If he was going to have to share a bathroom it would be with _one_ other person, not three. And the "one" he had in mind was pretty nice to wake up to, as long as he stepped lightly until she got some coffee down.

His hotel room in order, Mike reached into his pocket and pulled out the key Genie had given to him in the conference room. It was a damn pushy thing to do, he thought, and smiled anyway. Usually the notion of people leaning into his private life pissed him off, but in this case he was actually grateful. Genie was really down to earth, and that teeny bopper reporter wasn't turning out to be too big a drag either. Together they'd really helped him out, for sure. Picking up his shaving kit, Mike left the suite and quietly let himself into the room a few doors down the hall. He knew Bonnie would be out like a light.

* * *

_Speaking of lights_… the room he entered was black as a tomb, at least until he stood still for a couple of minutes and let his eyes adjust to the dim light filtering through the drapes. Not wanting to risk bumping into things and making a racket, he set his shaving kit down on a nearby bureau and carefully approached the bed. There was a small lump in the exact middle.

Mike learned early that Bonnie curled up just like an armadillo when she slept, as if protecting herself from predators. Once in a while she'd stretch out and get snuggly up close to him, but more often than not he was left on his own while she snoozed in a scrunched up ball on the other side of the bed. If he reached for her in the middle of the night she came to him willingly enough, but sooner or later she'd be back in the Armadillo Pose and he'd be left to spend the rest of the night empty handed. He didn't take it personally, but damn sometimes it got to him anyway. The sex was great, and she was all over him like a sheen of sweat for a good while after they made love, but when it came to the mundane business of catching z's… well the truth was there was damn little charm in sleeping next to an armadillo, especially one that could punch his lights out without even trying if he woke her up too suddenly. Still, he'd come to prefer it to sleeping alone.

He sat in an armchair to slip off his boots and that dumbass belt that was wide enough to harness a rhinoceros. Whoever at JC Penney menswear thought of _that_ little bit of hip style, he'd love to meet in a dark alley after midnight. Whenever he was wearing one of those "mod" extra-wide things he felt like he couldn't bend over without lacerating his liver. _Thank you Jesus_, Genie would have him wearing mostly jeans and buckskin for the week. He'd have thanked Bob for hiring her, if the thought of thanking Bob for _anything_ didn't make him gag.

Relieved of boots and belt, he padded to the bed otherwise fully clothed, and crept to where he could stretch out next to her on top of the covers. He'd gotten a decent amount of sleep on the flight, but a little more shuteye wouldn't hurt. Here with her, it would hurt even less. He didn't risk waking Bonnie by kissing her, instead just lying down on his side next to her so she could continue her much-needed sleep.

"Armadillo mama," he whispered with a smile. "There's a song in there somewhere..."

"Sugar."

_She must be dreaming_, he thought. He was about to close his eyes when she said it again in a sleep-fogged voice: "_Sugar_."

This time it was closer to a whine, and she slowly uncoiled and rolled back toward him as far as the pinned-down covers would allow. "Gimme."

"Well now when you sweet talk like that, how's a guy to resist." He stretched over a little and kissed her. "How's that?"

"Mmm-hmm." She bunched up in a ball again, leaned her head back against his shoulder, and went back to sleep.

He lay watching her for a while. She wasn't much like the women he'd gone for, on the road or off. There had been some stunning beauties, for sure, women with big tits and shiny smiles that would tell him anything he wanted to hear, and bodies built for speed. His wife had been purely gorgeous, and her smile (until he killed it) could light a room. Lying next to him here and now was a dishwater blonde with a short nose and strange blue-grey eyes, an honest mouth that smiled a little darkly, and a body that was built for… this. Armadillo sleeping, and hold-nothing-back loving that didn't even try to pretend to be every man's fantasy. Not to mention she had seven years on him... which put her fifteen ahead of more than a few he'd had.

That's what made it such a powerful thing; this time and space with an unremarkable woman was remarkable in its reality. In a world that had become marked by more fakery than even the cynical Michael Nesmith could have predicted falling into, here he was in this still small space defined by quiet conversation and laughter and comfortable silence, completely uncolored by judgment or disappointment. He felt like himself, or maybe as he _should_ be, when they were together. _Everything_ felt like it should be. And if right now that warm and welcoming unremarkable body was shaped kinda like an armadillo, that was fine too. He'd always had a soft spot for armadillos... they reminded him of home.

* * *

"_les Monkees ont dormi ici_" : "the Monkees slept here"


	9. The girl that I knew somewhere

_Villa Montparnasse, Room 212, 2:30pm_

* * *

Bonnie stretched extravagantly when she woke, lazier and more well-slept than she had been, probably, since she got this dream job of nightmares. When she sat up and shook off the last fuzzy bits of sleep, she saw something on the bed next to her. A white rose, and a note:

_-5pm, lobby. Leave the briefcase behind. Nez(mith)-_

The handwriting was obvious, even if his means of access was not. Then again, maybe it was. Genie had swapped rooms, so why shouldn't she have coughed up a key? And Bonnie remembered, though she'd thought at the time it was a dream, that Nesmith was there with her. She'd begged a kiss, and he'd given her one. But the rest was silence. And how did he know she loved white roses? Who cares, she told herself. Correctly answering an unasked question was the coin of the realm for her and Nesmith. It was a bit late now, not to mention way too ironic, to question it.

She took the fancy cut glass water carafe from the table by the window and filled it with water, put the rose in it and set it on the bureau. Romance, Pam had said there should be some romance when you're in Paris. Well if this was as close as it came, it was more than okay. Nesmith didn't strike her as the stereotypically romantic type anyway, his close attention played out in a much less symbolic way. Like trips to New York to bring back a part of her she thought was gone forever, and making Benny's music come alive to an audience. She'd never craved the "classic romance" thing herself, the flowers and poetry (except for well written songs) that other girls she'd known seemed to live for. They were nice, but you couldn't take them all on their own as something special. But Mike's single rose touched her, anyway, as much as his silent visit, even though Ari had warned her time and again, "Flowers don't tell you anything, any jerk can buy flowers."

"Omigod, Ari," Bonnie gasped. Nesmith had said he had his number, but she knew the number for Strings Attached by heart, even now. It was before noon in New York, but it was also Friday. If Ari hadn't changed, he'd be there with a skeleton crew getting things ready for that night. She knew he hadn't changed, he would never. Big name or newcomer, every performer got the same treatment, and that included having the club set up as if every night was opening night.

She dialed 0 and told the desk, _"S'il vous plait, chargez cet appel à la chambre deux-cent douze, merci beaucoup."_ Then she dialed the number that she'd never forget, even if she tried. A young man answered.

"Strings Attached, doors open at six-thirty, first set at eight. You wanna know who's playing, you gotta come down."

That made her laugh. Ari would advertise in the paper and on posters in the Village but he never gave information on the phone. He thought it made callers more inclined to show up out of curiosity.

"That's okay, I'm calling from out of town. Is Ari around?"

"Isn't he always? He's pretty busy, can I give him a message?"

"Just tell him Siobhan's calling from Paris."

"Oh, wow, long distance. I'll get him." She heard the phone bounce none too gently on the bar, and the call of "Hey, _Ari,_ phone call from Paris! Yeah, Paris! I dunno, maybe it's Texas, come on and find out! Lady says to tell you it's Siobhan."

She really hadn't expected to cry; it wasn't even on her mind. But then she heard the breathless Brooklyn honk, and knew he had to have covered the length of the club in about two steps.

'_Siobhan? Sweetheart, baby, _Siobhan_? Is that you?"_

She tried to say something, but got tangled in tears after managing, "Ari? Yeah it's me…" After a second she went on, "Ari I'm so sorry…"

"_Now just cut that out, you. __Yeah so you left, so you didn't call or write, boo hoo me. Well here you are, and from Paris of all places. Texas, or France?"_

"France. Forgive me, Ari? I didn't mean to walk away for so long, I really didn't, but it got easier and easier not to think about it…"

Now his voice was quietly understanding. _"I know, kid. Forgive you? For what? There's nothing to forgive. Some things take some time, I know that. But I'm glad you called. Thank your friend Mike for giving you my number."_

Now she started crying for real. "How could you think I forgot it? How could you think that… after all you did for us, for me, after all that time we spent there… it's like my own _name_, I could never forget it!"

_"Calm down, now. Did I say you forgot? I think maybe you just needed a noodge. Okay, a kick in the pants maybe. So. You heard the tape."_

"Yeah, I heard the tape. It was like getting out of jail, Ari, to know that it existed somewhere outside my head, that what Benny made could just sail through the air like it did before."

_"I gotta say, that is the nicest, most solid decent thing I've seen in years, what your friend Mike did."_

"I know." Uneasy that he might start asking questions she couldn't answer just yet, Bonnie said, "So you haven't asked what I'm doing in Paris."

"_So?"_

"So we're doing an episode in Paris, same crazy crap we do in L.A. but 'more exotic' Bob says. You know what I do, right Ari? Working for Bob Rafelson, he's crazy and can be a real pain but he also is like trying to keep up with a psycho genius. Not that he's always right, but he just spews out the ideas and makes the plans and my job is to do the details. And ride herd on the most appropriately named band of hooligans in the business."

_"Sounds like you like your job. I already know you're good at it."_

"Jury's out on both sometimes, man. This week… fifty-fifty. But how are you? How's the club?"

"_I'm a few years older and a few pounds fatter, but lighter in hair. Club's the same as always, a bottomless pit of hopeless cases and occasional mind-blowing miracles." _

(like Benny, they both thought simultaneously)

_"I miss you, kid. Think you might pry yourself loose from your jet setting career to visit an aging Jew folk music impresario?"_

"I'd really like to, Ari. I'm just so busy…"

_"Yeah, yeah, so am I… busy is bullshit, and you know it. You think you have all the time in the world, well you don't. Nobody knows that better than you. Come back, spend a few days, bring that rock star boyfriend of yours. I got the feeling he was really itching to get back into some real music."_

"He's not my _boyfriend_, we're just, I dunno, whatever we are. But you're right, he gets so he's crazy to sit down with the real thing. There's a club in L.A., the Troubadour, he plays there with his friends sometimes. I think he'd like Strings."

_"Well we ain't no Troubadour, but it's sure as hell the real thing. Look, this must be costing a fortune."_

"Haven't you heard? I work for Raybert, the hottest production company in Hollywood, I'm just _swimming_ in money. But unfortunately part of my job is to make sure the pool stays full, so yeah I should go." There was a second or two of silence. "Ari? You there?"

_"I've been here all along, sweetheart. I always will be, whenever you want to come home for a visit."_

"I will, I swear I will. We got a few more epis to tape after this monster and then we get four weeks off. I'll be there, I swear."

_"Bring your boyfriend. I hear he plays a mean guitar."_

"Jesus H, Ari, he's _not_ my boyfr…"

_"Sez you. Oy re-voyar, Siobhan sweetie." _

The line went dead.

Bonnie hung up the phone, staring and smiling at it, shaking her head as if it were Ari sitting there. She looked over at the rose on the bureau.

"He really _isn't_. He's just… pretty much exactly what I need every time I need it, and I know it's not because it comes naturally."

The small mantel clock was chiming three-thirty. Time for another luxurious shower and leisurely lounge-about before she went downstairs.

_Five pm... Leave the briefcase behind._

"Dig _that_," she declared as she headed for the bathroom.

* * *

Downstairs, Davy was getting ready to hit the street again, having chatted up a willing barmaid who now waited for him at a local café. And thank God she could speak English and was not inclined to deep, meaningful conversation. As he exited the lobby, he nearly collided with a statuesque brunette wearing a tight fitting blue dress and _very_ high heels.

"Allo, luv, didn't see ya there." He eyed her up and down (mostly up) appreciatively.

_"Je cherche Bonnie Morris,_" the woman spoke in Russian-accented French, then corrected herself to speak in Russian-accented English. "I look for Bonnie Morris."

"Ah, well she's staying here but I don't know where she is at the moment. She and me mate have a date at five o'clock," he pointed to his watch, "five. She should be by around then. But y'know we already got all the models we need, so don't know if she can help you." She looked a little rough compared to the women they'd hired that afternoon. Maybe she was looking for work as an extra.

"Is okay. I will wait." She moved to a café next door and sat down at one of the tables.

"Groovy. I'm off then."

The woman lit a cigarette and ordered a kir from the waiter. Then she sat back, crossed her legs, and kept a steady eye on the door of the hotel, watching and listening for any women who were speaking English and seemed to be here on the business of making television films.

* * *

_"S'il vous plait, chargez cet appel à la chambre deux-cent douze, merci beaucoup." _- "Please charge this call to room two-twelve


	10. This just doesn't seem to be my day

The Eiffel Tower scenes, the most challenging logistically because of the crowds of tourists, were scheduled to be shot on late Saturday afternoon, giving everyone except the tech and location crews an opportunity to entertain themselves on Friday without having to worry about an early call. Bob was seized by a fit of generosity, and gave Genie and Bonnie the night off. Genie would have to report to the location with wardrobe at 1pm, but Angie was made responsible only for transporting the cast to location and making sure they got into wardrobe and makeup in time to hit their yet-to-be-determined marks.

"So lads, what's the plan tonight?" Genie asked brightly when she and Pam found Peter and Micky lounging in the elegantly furnished lobby.

"Jaclyn and Michelle are gonna show us around a little, maybe do a club or two," Peter volunteered.

At that moment Bonnie showed up, fortified by the coffee and croissants that room service had delivered unbidden (by her, anyway) half an hour before. Though she heard Peter she didn't comment. Her face must have revealed her doubts, though, because Micky spoke up.

"Don't worry Bonnie, everyone's virtue is safe. Any fool knows you don't love 'em and leave 'em on the _front end_ of the shoot. Much too messy."

She knew he was kidding… really, she knew that, _almost_, but couldn't keep from saying, "I hope you mean that. We don't need to deal with that kind of crap for the whole week. And Pam here…"

"Will be twenty years old in three months," Pam reminded her. "Don't worry, I'll let you read my copy before it goes to press." She smiled at Peter and Micky, "Besides, these guys are gonna pay my way tonight, _aren't _you?"

"Great, now we're paying protection money to a fan magazine reporter," Micky grumbled. "What kind of operation do you _really _work for, sweetheart?"

Bonnie interjected with an exaggerated shake of her finger, "Yeah well it won't get too expensive if you mind your manners."

Micky dropped his head back and sighed. "_Yes_ mother," then directed to Pam in a stage whisper, "Fink."

"Seriously, Bonnie," Peter added, "we were just gonna ask Genie and Pam to come with us. It's just a night out. Besides," he added mischievously, "we haven't decided yet which one we really want off the set. We might swap."

As Genie laughed, Bonnie leaned over to swat Peter on the back of the head.

"_Ow! _I thought that was Micky's thing!"

"Contract amendment," she informed him, then warned a grinning Micky, "_Your_ clause still stands, by the way."

"Yeah, well I'm saving up for a helmet," he muttered. "Isn't it time for Mike to take you out and sweeten you up?"

Bonnie looked at all of them in faux-outrage. "So this is a conspiracy, huh?"

"Nah," said Micky, "but why not reap some benefits?"

"Smart, I admire that." She looked around the lobby for a minute. "Hey, where's David?"

"Off doing things nobody could afford to pay protection for," Genie winked, and this time everybody nodded and smiled knowingly.

"I don't think Sixteen would publish it even if I covered it," Pam laughed.

"Okay, okay, I get it… all mama-talk stops now," Bonnie promised them all. "I know you're all cool, the job just gets a death grip on me, y'know?"

"Oh we are hip to that," Micky agreed, then stood and patted Bonnie's head in a gentle parody of her habitual smacks. "It's cool, Bon-Bon. You're hip to _that_."

"Bon-bon" was Micky's nickname for Bonnie when he wanted her to take him seriously. He didn't use it all that often but when he did, she paid attention.

"Yeah, I'm hip to that, Mick. Okay guys, I'm a little early for my 'sweeten up' appointment," she winked at Micky, "I'm gonna check out the street, I'll be back in a bit."

* * *

Bonnie wandered through the lobby of the hotel, greeting the friendly doorman, Louis, as she passed on her way outside. It was a beautiful late spring evening, not quite twilight. People were out wandering the sidewalks, stopping at cafés or searching out the galleries and jazz clubs of the famous _Rive Gauche_. She could see it was going to be a clear night, with stars dimly visible through the wash of Paris lights.

"_Pardon, je cherche Bonnie Morris, c'est vous?"_

Still staring at the street scene before her, Bonnie replied distractedly _"Oui, c'est moi, qu'est-ce que…"_

"Bitch!" the other spat, in what Bonnie realized was a very odd accent for a Frenchwoman speaking English. By the time she looked the other woman in the eye, it was too late.

_SMACK!_

Completely unexpected, the forehand blow knocked Bonnie flat on her ass. Her head bounced back and rebounded off the iron railing that divided the hotel's section of sidewalk from the neighboring sidewalk café.

"Wha…" she began, then the woman was on the ground with her, wildly swinging slaps and attempted punches. Bonnie knew how to fight back, but the bang to her head had dazed her, so she was reduced to trying to dodge and shove the woman away. Insults and obscenities in the odd sounding English rained down along with the blows.

Louis the doorman heard the commotion and burst outside to find out what was happening. This wasn't the sort of neighborhood where street fighting occurred.

Louis attempted to pull the attacker off of Bonnie, but was unable to get a grip because she was thrashing so wildly. He and the woman shouted at one another in French, broken when the woman spewed more abuse at Bonnie in English.

By now Micky and Peter had raced out the door. Shouldering the doorman aside, Micky seized the woman by the back of her dress and hauled her off of Bonnie. She regained her balance easily, even on stiletto heels, and attempted to break away, still shrieking in mixed French and English. Micky held her off none too gently, fist cocked and ready.

"If you think I won't hit a woman, just try me." He glanced over his shoulder at Louis, then at Bonnie, who was still sitting on the sidewalk looking out of it. Micky turned back to the brunette and demanded, "You wanna tell me what the _fuck_ is going on here?"

Unwilling to explain to Micky, the woman turned to Louis, who now seemed to recognize her (from a different neighborhood, of course). Micky kept a hard grip on her as she and Louis conversed rapidly in French. Peter had been handed several linen napkins by a waiter at the café next door and knelt next to Bonnie, tipping her head back to stop her nosebleed.

"What happened?" he asked her, more quietly than Micky had, but she just shook her head. Things were still a little whirly but were slowing down.

"This woman is a common _racoleuse_… a prostitute, she claims to have been denied work by _Mademoiselle_ Morris," Louis announced.

Bonnie tried to get up, but Peter was holding her down. She asked, "What? Wait a minute," she pushed Peter away and struggled to her feet. "Ask her who she works for." She couldn't quite conjure her French at the moment.

After a brief exchange, during which Micky kept himself between the woman and Bonnie, Louis explained, "She works for Madame Janelle Duvalier."

The brunette leaned around Louis, keeping one eye on Micky, and added, "_Son cousin Henri_… her cousin Henri, in America, he arranges us with visitors. He promised Madame that we would be well paid to be with musicians this week. And after… _rien_. You, Bonnie Morris, said no, said it was a mistake. So now we have no rich American musicians."

"So Henri, he works with his cousin?" Bonnie asked. The woman looked confused, so she repeated in French, _"Sont-ils des partenaires?"_

"_Oui_. Henri, he works for a rich American television producer who knows many visitors. Your television film is working here, so he arranged for us to work. But _you_," she made a halfhearted lunge at Bonnie, stopping when Micky's hand began to clench again. _"Vous a tout gâché!"_

By then two _gendarmes _had arrived, having been summoned by the café manager.

They had heard Bonnie speaking French, so one of the officers (who also recognized the brunette as a prostitute) inquired, "_Voulez-vous de porter des accusations?_"

"_Hell _yes I wanna press charges! This crazy whore jumped me!" She gave her local contact information to the other officer, along with the contact in the states for Raybert's legal department, in case they were needed. She'd been attacked for doing her job, after all. Business done, the woman was taken away.

Micky spoke first. "Jesus, what a mess, you okay?"

He and Peter both tried to examine Bonnie's face at the same time.

"Shit, gimme some air, will you?" she snapped, then stopped herself. "I'm sorry, guys. Thanks Mick, I promise I won't tell PR that you threatened to punch out a girl."

Micky looked in the direction of the departing police car and replied, "That was no _girl_, Bon-Bon, that was a bitch from hell. C'mon let's go back inside and find some ice. Your lip's looking a little funky."

They promptly ran into Mike, who stopped dead in the center of the lobby when he saw Bonnie shuffling in, nose bloodstained and lip fattening, flanked by Micky and Peter.

"Bob said you were waiting outside… what the fuck is going on?"

"Popular question," Bonnie answered, then her eyes narrowed. "Where's Bob?"

"In the bar, but…"

Bonnie, now clutching the bloody napkin to her face, marched toward the bar, leaving Micky, Peter, and a very confused Mike standing in the lobby.

* * *

The three guys were joined by Genie and Pam, who had watched the scene in disbelief through the lobby windows.

"_Well?_" Mike demanded.

It didn't take long to tell him what happened. By the time they'd finished, Mike had murder in his eye.

"Fucking _Bob_ and his bright ideas." He headed off in the same direction Bonnie had taken, but Peter and Micky held him back.

"Let her handle it, man," Peter told him, "she doesn't need you to help."

"You mean she doesn't need me to fuck things up, don't you?" he glowered.

"He means, she's a big girl," Genie added. "Besides, odds are right now whatever you have to say won't come close to what she'll be laying on him."

* * *

Bonnie strode up to the bar where Bob and Chip sat with Don, who had flown in at the last minute to advise on the music tracks. Ignoring the other two, she announced, "Bob, we gotta talk."

The trio turned from their drinks, and three pairs of eyebrows rose.

"Mike work out his temper on you?" Kirshner asked (unwisely), then leaned back as Bonnie lowered her napkins and stepped up to him.

"I will punch you right off that barstool." He returned to his scotch.

Then she turned to Bob. "I just had a visit from an employee of your driver Henri's 'talent agent' cousin… who happens to be Madame Janelle Duvalier, remember that name? Seems Henri is quite the entrepreneur… in addition to driving you around and offering free advice on location hiring, he gets work for his cousin's girls. He's a fucking _pimp_, Bob. And one of his _Filles des Nuit _just jumped me outside to thank me for canceling their non-existent contract!"

She stepped back and waved the bloody linens like a battle flag in Bob's face.

"I did not sign on for this, Bob. Yeah, I knew I'd be doing all the juggling and arranging and babysitting four grown men who suddenly have everything they ever wanted and bitch about it night and day. I knew I'd be sitting in endless meetings with writers and techies and town managers and fan club presidents and self-anointed _geniuses_," here she glared at Don, who wisely kept his back turned and his mouth shut, "and carrying your water, because all of that goes with the job. But getting pounded into the pavement by a two bit whore was _not _part of the deal!" As Bob started to open his mouth, she warned, "If you call me 'babe', I'm on the next flight back to L.A."

Shocked by the situation, and purely by reflex, Bob replied, "Babe, what do you want…"

Bonnie yanked her room key out of her pocket and slapped it on the bar. "My briefcase is on the desk. My notebooks are on the bureau. My _check_ better be in the mail." As she turned on her heel and walked away Bob jumped up and went after her.

"C'mon, Bonnie wait a minute, will you? I'm sorry, are you okay?" He reached for her arm but jerked back again when she turned on him. "What can I do?"

"Am I okay? _Look_ at me Bob, and ask me again. Your bad idea just pounded the crap out of me. If we're very lucky there was nobody anywhere with a camera close enough to shoot your drummer threatening to pop the bitch that jumped me." She realized then she didn't have an answer to his last question, and as usually happened when things got tense between them, they wound up back at square one. Staring at each other, and out of words.

"I told the cops I wanna swear out charges. Since this happened because of my job, I gave him your number here, and the legal eagles back home. Can you handle that for me until they really need anything from me?"

"Of course, b…onnie. You need to see a doctor? I'll talk to the concierge…"

She shook her head, smiling in spite of her throbbing face. "Bob, Bob… you don't even know his name. Look, just do us both a favor and don't take advice from your gardener or your plumber, or it might get me killed next time." Her anger had burned off, and the general shock of what happened suddenly had her on the verge of tears.

Bob stepped closer and touched her shoulder gingerly. "I mean it, whatever you want, I'm sorry this happened, you know I mean it. If I actually thought anyone was gonna come after you for this... Look if anyone took pictures, Legal will take care of it. I'm just glad you're okay… well almost okay I mean. For real, just tell me what you need." She could see now that he was genuinely shaken.

"Hey, if you want I'll let you take a shot at Kirshner. Chip and me'll clear the bar, make sure nobody else is around." He was only half kidding.

"Rain check. I'm still a little dizzy and would hate to miss. I don't think I need a doctor, I didn't hit my head that hard." When she saw Bob's concern ramp up she added hastily, "_Really_. My nose isn't even broken. Of course I won't be ready for any press photos for a few days," she touched her swollen lower lip and winced. "Just promise me you'll fire that pimp driver of yours, and we're cool."

"Fire him… I might _kill _him. I'll get a phone right now and have Legal get his keys. You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah. You shoulda seen Micky, Bob… I really thought he was gonna cold cock that bitch."

"Child actors grow up rough. Okay, I'll go make that call. Guys," he called to Chip and Kirshner, "I got some calls to make. Be back in a few."

As he walked her out of the bar he told her seriously, "You'll tell me if you need anything at all, right?"

"Yeah, promise." She saw Mike sitting in one of the lobby love seats. He jumped to his feet, a hard look on his face, but waited in silence.

"Kirshner talked like an asshole," Bob told Bonnie before he headed to the elevators, "but it's a shame Nesmith can't spare some of what he saves for you for anyone else. It'd make his life a lot easier."

She waved him off. "Later, Bob."

When she got to where Mike stood she tried not to flinch when he touched her face. _God_ it hurt, it felt like a toothache in the whole front of her head.

"Not much of a street fighter, are you?" he asked.

"She suckered me, man. I coulda taken her if she didn't get in first." She reached around his waist and hugged him briefly, then looked up at him, praying that he wouldn't be sadistic enough to kiss her. He did, but on the forehead. "Thanks," she sighed gratefully. "And thanks for the rose, and thanks for the _coffee_…" she paused, then finished, "and thanks for staying out of it."

"Thank Genie and Peter. I was halfway in before they stopped me. It pisses me off so much, you paying for Bob's dumbass mistakes."

"Trust me, he's gonna be more careful. He's not _that_ big an asshole, Nesmith, he just does his job, sometimes not so good. Like the rest of us, right? You gotta stop blaming him for everything you wish was different."

He was unmoved. "He's in charge, that's what he keeps telling us. If he wanted to he could make it _all_ different."

Bonnie sighed. "It's too late to make that trade rag ad different, you remember the one you answered? It was for actors, not musicians. Your contracts are for acting, not playing, no matter how stupid I agree that is and how big a jerk Kirshner is. People _are_ working on changing things, you gotta trust me on that."

"I do trust you. It's everyone else I don't believe. Now how you feelin'?"

Bonnie could see that the deeper discussion was, clearly, over.

"My face hurts. My head hurts. And my mouth… if you kiss me the pain will probably kill me."

He bent down and moved her hair aside to kiss her just behind the ear.

"Well that opens up a whole new world of possibilities, Morris."

She stepped away, noticing, "People are watching." Only a couple actually, but still…

"Let 'em watch. Bet it's the first time they ever saw two girls duke it out in the doorway, gotta love us American tourists. C'mon, you up for a walk?"

"Yeah, a little air might make my head stop banging." She took his arm as they stepped outside. "Did I tell you, you're looking like a rock'n'roll wet dream tonight?" He was wearing the high-rise buckskin boots, tight jeans with a narrow silver-trimmed belt, and a black open-necked shirt under his own buckskin jacket.

"Nasty mouth," he chided, but crooked an arm around her neck to pull her closer as they walked, and kissed her head. "I like that in a woman. There's a little gypsy jazz club up the road I checked out, crazy guitars, lots of coffee. Sound good?" When she nodded and smiled lopsidedly up at him he added with a sly wink, "Play your cards right, I might even let you sit in my lap."

* * *

_"__Pardon, je cherche Bonnie Morris, c'est vous?" - _"Excuse me, I'm looking for Bonnie Morris, is that you?"

_"Sont-ils des partenaires?" - _"Are they partners?"

_"Oui, c'est moi, qu'est-ce que…" - _"Yes, that's me, what is it..."

_rien- _nothing

___"Vous a tout gâché!"_- "You ruined everything!"


	11. You told me

"Wakey-wakey, c'mon," she pulled at the covers to little effect. "Up-up-up-up!"

Incoherent muffled grumbles and grunts were all that came from under the bunched up sheets and blanket.

It was six-thirty in the morning. Bonnie had been up since six, had showered and was already dressed in jeans, Raybert Productions t-shirt and sneakers, and was ready to roll. The van was picking them up at seven-thirty for transport to the location in the Luxembourg gardens to shoot the last sequences for the episode. They were ahead of schedule, and Bonnie didn't want to blow it all by dragging ass today. Problem was, Nesmith's ass wasn't just dragging, and it was nailed firmly to the bed.

"I am _begging_ you, if we get done on schedule today, we have two whole days left to do whatever we want, you can sleep for forty-eight hours!" She sat on the bed next to the long, rangy, inert lump.

"Pleeeeze?" she cajoled, leaning close enough to pry a corner of bedding away from the sliver of face that wasn't buried in the pillow.

One brown eye glowered at her as he growled like a cornered wolverine. The growl ended in something very like a whine.

"Just one more day, and it's all over," she promised. He just burrowed in deeper, so she abandoned affectionate persuasion and cut straight to ugly. "Goddammit…"

She grabbed one of the decorative bolsters from the floor next to the bed and started swinging on him.

_Whop –_

"I see a light at the end of this long dark tunnel and I'm telling you we are gonna get there _today…_ now get your skinny…_"_

_ – whop – _

"Texas ass…"

– _WHOP – _

"_outta bed_!"

The lump in the bed wove and dodged like a mole running under a sky-blue lawn.

"I AM NOT KIDDING."

_WHOP-WHOP-WHOP _

After the last three _whops_ Mike sat up slowly, like a vampire rising from his coffin. Hair askew, eyes slit, he glared at her in silence.

"Just one more day, Nesmith, honest," she promised sweetly, inches from his malevolent stare, and then her voice dropped to an icy monotone. "And you are _not_ gonna fuck it up." She lobbed the ruined bolster onto the foot of the bed. By now the richly embroidered pillow looked like a high-priced sackful of dirty socks.

"_That's_ comin' outta yer paycheck, missy," Mike grumbled, nodding toward the shapeless lump of brocade satin. "Cruel, _evil minded_," he went on, but she bounced off the bed before he could finish.

"Blah, blah, blah. Thought that was just your style." She grabbed the change of clothes he'd brought with him last night and tossed them on the bed. "Shower, shave, and dress, or I'll drag your scruffy uncombed bare-ass self downstairs as-is."

"Just mean enough to _do_ it too, y'slave drivin' wench." Mike wrapped the sheet around himself and stumbled to his feet, muttering, "Havin' yer wicked way with me every night, and workin' me to the bone every day…"

"I didn't hear you complaining last night, or maybe 'oh _yeah_ baby like _that_' was a cry for help?" Bonnie laughed, then indicated the sheet he'd wound around his waist. "And it's a little late to be demure, cowboy."

"Hah, if you think yer gettin an eyeful of me when yer actin' like _this_," he declared and leaned down into her face, "you got another thing comin'." He stomped into the bathroom, trailing a white silk train behind him along with the words, "I'll be ready in five." Then through the closed door sailed the words, "_And I ain't no_ _cowboy!_"

She imagined a similar scene was playing out in the suite down the hall. Well somewhat similar, as Chip worked to rouse the other three.

There had been no wild party the night before, to be sure, because Mike had been right in part. The guys and their female counterparts were being run ragged in every scene, every day. Even the boat ride on the Seine had involved a good share of leaping and running. In fact, Micky had lost his footing and fallen in the river, and had to be fished out by the charter crew. The only people who weren't busting a sweat, or even batting an eye, were the Parisian bystanders who hadn't a clue who these lunatics were or why they were filming themselves running like maniacs from beautiful women. The only energy left over at the end of the day was enough to get them all through dinner, and maybe Micky and Peter out for a short espresso with their French counterparts. Even Davy was too beat to "go bird hunting" as he called it, though it appeared last night he made an exception.

Bonnie and Mike had had just enough life left in them on one or two nights to enjoy each other and the enormous bed and the huge china tub in the bathroom. Most nights it was just crash and sleep, but last night they'd made it (in every sense of the word) into the wee hours. She'd had to pry her eyes open too, but for christsake it was one more day and they were _done._ It wasn't just Nesmith, she knew. Men in general could be _such_ whiners.

"Okay," Bonnie called through the bathroom door, over the noise of the shower, "I know you think I'm being a drag, and a slave driver, but c'mon, it hasn't been all bad has it? We've been able to go out with the other guys, and the girls we hired who turned out to be pretty nice, and the guys didn't go all grabby-ass with 'em, and you took me to a couple real groovy places that first night, right? It hasn't been all bad, seriously. Look, I'm sorry I pounded on you just now…" She _was _feeling a little guilty; everyone had been running themselves up one street and down another alley, just endless exertion, and the only "fun" during the day was fake. "I'm sorry, okay? I just gotta do my job and part of that is getting you guys where you need to be on time, I mean if I wasn't here, Chip would be rousting you, right?"

Then her brain shifted gears. _Why am I groveling like this? Work is work; we all signed on for the same thing._ She repeated that mantra as often as Mike repeated his rants against the Music-Smothering Powers That Be.

"Now that I think of it, I don't know why I'm apologizing, it's not like you're seventy years old and being beaten with sticks, for christsake…" The shower turned off, and the hairdryer commenced. "I'm not the enemy here, y'know? Don't think I don't appreciate what we got, you'n'me, whatever it is, but still _sometimes_ you act like I'm just like all the people you rant about so much, the PTB, you know? We both got our jobs to do, and I _refuse_ to feel guilty about doing mine well, even if you guys don't all get what you want whenever you want it…"

She was segueing smoothly from guilt to resentment as Mike emerged from the bathroom: showered, shaved, perfectly combed, and dressed in his jeans and Triumph t-shirt that he'd swap for wardrobe when they got to the location. He walked to where Bonnie stood talking and gesturing, and just stood over her for a minute until she stopped.

"You through?" he asked flatly.

"What's _that_ supposed to mean? I just wanted to…"

He leaned down and shut her off with a kiss.

"Morris, sometimes you talk too damn much. Let's fix you up with some coffee before you drive me crazy, and get this last day of bullshit over with."

Disarmed, she caught a whiff of sandalwood as he walked by her. "Hey, you smell good."

"I smell like _you… _I ran out of my shampoo so I used yours, and that soap." He stopped near the door, sniffed his arms, and tried to pull some hair closer to his nose. "Oh, _groovy_, I smell like a Hindu whorehouse."

"Thanks a bunch. And it figures you'd know what one smells like…" she muttered as she led the way to the elevator.

"Damn, there was _no_ good side of the bed for you today, huh?" he punched the lobby button then declared with exaggerated dignity, "And for your information, I have _never_ been invited to a Hindu whorehouse."

The doors slid open.

"Why bother, when they come to _you_." She headed off his protest, "Hey, _you're_ the one was going on about all those women… shouldn't have opened your big mouth."

"Hey Phil," Mike called to the day concierge Philippe, and pointed at Bonnie as they crossed the lobby, "can we quick drug her up with some coffee so I don't have to shoot myself to get some peace?"

"I just love how you kids sweet talk." Micky appeared from nowhere and shoved a large covered paper cup into Bonnie's hand. "Here's your fix, black as your mood." He ducked as she swung an open hand at the back of his head. "Hah! Too quick for you."

"Day ain't over yet, slick," she advised as they piled into the van to go the location. Once they were rolling, she leaned forward far enough to reach her chin over the back of Mike's seat and told him quietly, "Sorry, Nesmith."

"S'okay, Morris." He turned his head in time to brush her mouth with his own, like the first couple of times he'd kissed her. "Gotcha." When she dropped her forehead down on his shoulder he smiled a little and told her, "one more day. Then groovy things are gonna happen, and you are definitely invited."

"Bloody hell will you two break it up?" Davy griped. He'd been out too late and had drunk too much the night before. "It's already hard enough not to puke."

Genie and Bonnie shot a glance at Pam.

"I know, I know, _off_ the record!" she acknowledged cheerfully. Having gotten her background, day-to-day, and most of her commentary notes on the "hard work of looking fun" under control, she had only the direct interviews to get done. Today's more relaxed filming schedule seemed like the best time for it; the shoot so far had been so frantic that the "no comment" looks Bonnie had warned her about at the airport that first day had been confronting her at every turn. Today was her last chance to have them all handy, and it was the best day for it too. This was going to be a great article; she could feel it. Different. Not the same annoying crappy questions as all the other magazines asked. Still… caution prevailed, she reminded herself. She'd definitely be leaving Davy for last.

* * *

_Peter's Interview_

"Got a minute?" Pam asked Peter, and sat down next to him in the makeup area where he waited for his call for the "park walk" shots. They were doing the guys separately with their "dates", then one traveling shot at the end with everyone walking away.

"Sure, but I think I'm up any minute."

"That's okay, this'll be short. Just two questions, I'm asking you all the same ones."

Peter sat back and smiled. Pam had been the exact opposite of what he and the other three had expected. She never bugged them when they were really busy, hadn't asked any personal questions, and in fact had barely asked them anything at all one-on-one. He knew Genie and Bonnie had a lot to do with it, but still he'd seen the girls (never guys) from the other teen mags who could slip even the tightest "herding", and ask the most squirmingly personal questions as if it was their right to know.

"Shoot."

"Okay. I bet you've answered a million times how your life has changed since you became a Monkee, what's it like to be a Monkee, all that. How about telling your fans… what's it like now when you're _not_ being a Monkee? How has that part of life changed? If you knew before what you know now, would you still be here doing this?" When Peter blinked at her and didn't answer, she thought maybe she'd asked the wrong thing. "I don't mean like meeting girls, or parties or anything. Look, if this is too personal, you don't have to answer."

_If this is too personal for the "friendliest Monkee", _she thought to herself, _there goes my whole interview strategy._

"No, no way, you're not crossing that line at all." He looked away for a minute, watching as Micky did his stroll with Michelle, stopping now and then for a friendly (staged to be romantic) kiss. He shook his head, and looked back at Pam. "Nobody's ever asked that. I don't know if I've even thought about it much. Well, the first part… and I hope you can write this so it doesn't sound bad…"

"I'll write it any way you want to say it, Peter."

"Okay. Nowadays, since we hit it big, when I'm _not_ being a Monkee, you know, not on the road or on the set or at some press thing… it's more, what's the word, _precious_ to me than it was before when I can not be connected to the gig. I mean everybody has work to do, and they love their days off. But when I was a dishwasher, I could just clock out and that was that. On to my friends, my own life with no boss. Now it's not so simple. I leave the set, or the tour is over, and we have 'time off', but like, _everybody_ is the boss now, everywhere I go I have to think like I'm on the clock. If I mess up, you know, _everybody_ does sometimes, but if I do and somebody sees it, it can affect so much. I guess the simplest way to put it is before, I only had to be aware of myself and my friends when I wasn't working, you know? Now, when I'm not being a Monkee… I just can't completely ever let that go, can I? I mean, even my name isn't really my own anymore, it belongs to everybody." He stopped and asked Pam, "Is this what you meant? I'm not complaining, I mean I have what I came here for right? I'm grateful I got the chance, but I think I didn't understand what that meant. I'm just trying to answer the question."

"Don't worry, Peter, you did it perfectly. You're saying that now you're on the clock even when you aren't."

"Yeah. And I guess that's something I didn't think about before, well before all this. I thought of press, and fans in public, and photographers, and stuff like that. I knew that _work_ life would change. But I never thought about how downtime would change. Sometimes it's like the only time I can just let go and never worry about what happens if I screw up is when I'm absolutely, completely alone. Because even my friends know friends, and everyone in this business is connected. I don't mean I don't trust my friends, I mean… everyone's connected. Everyone's a coworker, one way or the other. When I was back in the Village, I was the only dishwasher I knew, once I clocked out. Now, _everybody's_ a dishwasher. You dig? Suddenly clocking out looks just like clocking in, because not even the faces are different."

Pam turned off her suitcase-sized reel-to-reel tape recorder. "That sounds hard. Harder than the kinds of work that everyone thinks you guys are so lucky for not having to do anymore." When Peter nodded in agreement, she reminded him, "You didn't answer the second question. If you knew then what you know now… would you be here? Or still in the Village?" She switched on the recorder again.

His smile faltered. "I don't know. I really don't." He looked off into the park again, where the set dressers were sweeping the paths and the lights and reflectors and all the other stuff was being reset for his take. When he faced Pam again, he asked, "What do you think the fans will say about _that_?"

"They'll say 'Peter Tork is kinda like me.' They'll see you as somebody that didn't have it all worked out in advance, and that doesn't have all the answers. The kind of guy they'd like to sit with on a park bench, and just rap."

Peter's smile brightened. "Pam, you are gonna be an outtasight writer, because you are an outtasight listener." Bob waved to him from the camera dolly. "My turn to fake the garden walk. Oh well, at least the _garden_ is real."

* * *

_Micky's Interview_

"Wow, that's a deep one." He paused to wipe off the remainder of his makeup. "I guess when I'm not being a Monkee I'm just being me. Hanging with my friends, partying…" here he made a sly face, "you can call that "socializing' if you want…"

Pam laughed. "Don't worry Micky, your secrets are safe. This is more about you than what you do."

"Oh. About me… so maybe you mean what do I miss now that I had before? Hm. Well unlike Mike and Peter I'm an actor, have been since I was a kid though you're too young to have seen me from the start." He shrugged. "It's always been about grabbing what time you can between scenes, figuring out who's real from who's working you. Not too hard after this long. But they always come together, though. That's the thing. The real people and the ones working you." He shrugged. "Life's like that, kinda mixed up and messy. Anyway, you can't miss what you never had. I never had anything but scenes and lines and characters that aren't me."

"But what I've seen of you when you're not on the set… it's a lot like your character on the show."

Micky dumped his towels in the portable hamper, and told her, "See that? I just dumped my face, but this time it's only makeup. This gig, this Monkees gig, in a funny way it's the first time I've really had nothing to dump after they yell 'cut'. Because there was no real character to learn, just had to be me, pretty much." He stopped then, and looked at the remainder of makeup on his hands. "Kinda weird, isn't it. Before I could wipe it all off and leave it at the sound stage. Now, I just take off the makeup." He laughed a bit ironically. "Looks like I don't get paid enough… they're getting _me_, and I used to get to keep that for myself."

Pam switched off her tape recorder. "I guess in your case, it doesn't make sense to ask if you'd have done it differently, huh? I mean, you've been acting all your life. This couldn't be much different. So you don't have to bother with the second question." She was surprised when Micky reached out and turned the recorder on again.

"Well I have an answer for it anyway. If I had the chance to decide again, I'd hold out for a character that isn't me. Because once this is over, and everything's over sooner or later or changes to something else, I don't think your readers will be surprised by that… once this is over, I can't be sure how much of myself I'll have left to take with me, and how much will have been transferred to new ownership." He switched off the recorder again. "Is that okay?"

Pam nodded. "That's _better_ than okay."

"Good. I gotta say, kid, you're a better interviewer than most. And that's comin' from a lifelong victim of 'em." He smiled and winked to let her in on the joke. "Okay, I'm outta here. I got some jazz clubs to catch up on before the party later on."

* * *

_Mike's Interview_

"And here I thought you _might_ be different. After you hooked in with Genie and all, and helped me out, I thought maybe you wouldn't be one of those dig-in-deep in your personal life kinda fan magazine reporters."

_Well it's not as if I expected him to be easy…_

"That's not what I mean. I'm not talking about what you _do_, I'm talking about how you _think_ about it. Do you think how things are when you're not being a Monkee, is that pretty much the same as before? Or not?"

"Well I'll tell you one thing, at least now I'm in control when I'm not working. Before… the only time I _wasn't_ in control was when I wasn't working, playing somewhere I mean. Because I couldn't control the rent, or the bills, or the crap food we had to eat to save money. But once I hit the stage, no matter how shitty the pay was, at least it was all me. Now… see that nonsense they have us doing out here? Playing at being on a date, kissing a woman I've never met until this week?" _Not that I haven't done a whole lot more than that with women… girls… that I knew a whole lot less… _"_Now_ when I'm not at a gig or on the set I can do what a want. Go where I like, see who I wanna see." He waited for a comment about Bonnie, but Pam just waited, tape running. "Well that last one, that's a little harder now I guess. And it's for damn sure I'm not in control of it." _I just know I want it to keep going… I know it takes more than paying the bills and coming home at night like I'm doing her a favor being there like I did with Phyllis... _"Well I told Bob I'm not gonna play kissy-face for the show, it's an insult to everybody's intelligence. So we played it for laughs. That'll work, I think. And no, it's not because of… y'know, the things that you're gonna leave out. Not because of that. Anyway, it's no crime even when you got what you signed up for to push to get it better, I think. Not just for me, but for the whole project." _Wouldn't I love to fill 'em all in on the fake music that they're buying, even when they're paying for the real thing in concert… _"I keep trying to push for that, to get it better, some people take that the wrong way. But it's all groovy, I'm glad I'm here, love playin' onstage and all." _That'll keep the kiddies happy, I guess, at least the ones that didn't go a few rounds with me in bed… they have their own private illusions to cherish…_

"So you're saying if you had the choice to make over again, you'd still be here?"

He slid up his shades and cut a look toward the costume van, where Bonnie was lounging with Genie. She had no idea what he had planned for the following night… and he was trying to imagine the look on her face when she found out.

"Mike? Would you do it all over again the same way?"

The shades came down again, and his smile surprised her. "In a heartbeat, sunshine."

* * *

_Davy's Interview_

"Are you kidding, luv? I'd do it again without even thinking. I've been acting most of my life, but this time it's really paying off. More money, more fans, more success than I imagined in my wildest dreams. I wouldn't do a bloody bit of it different."

"Great, thanks. But you didn't answer the first question. What's life like now when you're _not_ being a Monkee?"

He leaned so close she could smell his aftershave, and she had to force herself not to lean back. She really wasn't worried about him, but she wondered if _he_ knew that.

"I'm _always_ a Monkee, luv. Hate to think what I'd be missing if I wasn't."

_Well the fans will love that one, anyway,_ she thought.

"Thanks. I've got everything I need now, just need to type it all out."

"Care to come out for a drink? I can tell you anything you'd like to hear."

_Wow, not coming on too strong, but no doubt what he's asking, if I were willing. Like Micky said, love 'em and leave 'em is a problem on the front end, but maybe not so much at the back end._

"I'm sure you could. No thanks."

He nudged her with a playful grin. "Hey, just kiddin'," he assured her, not convincing her at all. "Hope you had a groovy time with us. Can't wait to read it."

* * *

Pam wandered over to join Genie and Bonnie, who had just finished up their lists for the wrap.

"Got everything?" Bonnie asked.

"And then some! Hey, thanks, both of you. I took your advice with the interview questions, pretty much. The answers _were_ a surprise, and believe it or not the answers can almost go to print as-is, with a few edits for language."

Genie locked eyes with Bonnie, and they declared in unison, "_Nesmith_." Then all three cracked up.

"Really," Pam insisted, "I don't know how to thank you."

"Of course you do," Genie winked at her, "we both know it."

"What?" Bonnie asked. "All week I've gotten the feeling that something is up, that something is planned, but I'm the only one left out."

"Trust us, luv, you're the _last _person who's being left out."

Genie and Pam laughed conspiratorially as the three of them went to the van to meet the guys for the trip back to the hotel. Later would be the wrap party there, complete with models and crew and all "survivors", as Bonnie called them.

"See, Pam, I told you that Paris would be romance-free," Bonnie reminded Pam.

Her two companions nearly doubled over, and Pam finally gasped,

"Whatever you say, Morris, whatever you say."


	12. A little bit me, a little bit you

Genie, Bonnie, and Pam shared a cab back to the hotel after the location was broken down and packed up, and the various contractors, extras, and rentals accounted for. Bonnie's briefcase was jammed with invoices and detailed manifests of what and who had been used for the day, all of which she'd sort out with the rest of the week's paperwork and pass on to accounting once they returned home. Genie catalogued all of the costumes, sorting out which belonged to Raybert/Colgems and which to the local wardrobe houses. She personally packed two special wardrobe bags and put them in a cab for delivery to her room at the hotel, noted "personal and private".

With Pam's assistance Genie and Bonnie had passed out dozens of invitations to the wrap party to be held at nine pm at the hotel. As soon as Bob called "cut, that's a wrap!" the guys had returned to the hotel to crash, and the models had made their own way to wherever they wanted to go. Bob and Chip were busy with the camera crew, overseeing the packing and shipping of the film. Every day's shooting had been shipped, day-by-day, back to L.A. to be edited and mixed with the soundtrack at the studio.

They were done, finis, complete. Genie and Bonnie slumped in the cab, weak with a combination of relief and exhaustion. Weakness would rapidly be replaced by a second wind born of the realization that they had survived the week with two days to spare. Pam had her tape machine balanced in her lap, headphones on, replaying that day's interview segments. If her two companions were pleased by what they had accomplished, Pam herself was mind-blown to realize she'd soon have something she never imagined she could get… an intelligent, interesting article about the Monkees series and the people that made it happen.

When the three women emerged from the cab, the doorman tipped his cap and swept a bow in greeting.

"_Mes damoiselles, felicitations et bienvenue!"_

They put on elegant airs as they passed, then burst out laughing.

"I'm going to get a shower and catch a nap before the party tonight," Pam announced.

Genie followed close on Pam's heels. "Right behind you, see you tonight Bonnie. No work, just fun!"

"Deal." Bonnie noticed they seemed to be in a rush to get to the elevator, but shrugged it off and went to the desk. "Bonjour Philippe… messages?"

"_Un télégramme."_ He handed her the envelope and added with a straight face, _"Voudriez vous avoir des café? Pour la sécurité de Monsieur Nesmith?"_

Bonnie leaned across the desk and intoned, "Le ha, le ha, le ha, Philippe," then she asked, "_Avez vous lui vu? Savez-vous où il est allé?"_

"_Non, je n'sais pas,"_ came the quick reply, and Philippe hustled to the other end of the desk to do some imaginary paperwork.

"_Bien, merci."_ Not ready to go to her room, she sat in a chair by the lobby window to watch the world go by. What a week… an idea that nobody – not even Bob – was completely sure would work had come together pretty well. Now it was all over but the editing… and the ratings. They'd all managed to get through it without killing one another. Even Kirshner had managed to keep out of the way of the work, though who knew whether it was out of a sense of self-preservation or the belief he was above it all. Chip had confided to her more than once that Bob was, for now, happy to let him and not Kirshner have the lion's share of the influence in sketching out which songs would be used. That could change to a free-for-all once they got home, but for now it all seemed to be in balance.

* * *

"So, it look okay?" Mike asked as he came out of Genie and Pam's bathroom.

All business, Genie directed, "Turn around… okay, profile. Nice." She bent to make a last minute inspection of an inseam.

"Lady if you do that just one more time, you're gonna have to propose," he warned.

No response as Genie stood back, walked around him in a slow circle, then pronounced with more than a hint of pride, "_Smashing_." She stepped back and asked Pam, "And what is the opinion of the press?"

Pam looked absolutely dream-struck. "I don't think the vocabulary has been invented yet."

Mike walked around the room, stretched this way and that. "Damn, it even feels good. Can you do this in denim?"

"Very funny. Back in the box with it until tomorrow," Genie ordered.

"Yes _ma'am_." He saluted and retreated again to the bathroom.

"What about Bonnie?" Pam wanted to know. "How are you gonna check that without ruining everything?"

Genie laughed. "No worries there, she tried it on once in my studio." She held out her hand for Pam to shake. "I think this will be a rousing success."

"Yeah, well I sure hope so," Mike said as he came back in the room, and handed the large flat box to Genie. "This is turning out to be a lot more than I was thinking of... she might think I'm putting her on."

"Tell you what, boyo," she responded, "if she says no, I'll be happy to stand in for her."

"No offense, but you're not my type," Mike laughed, "I like 'em contrary. Birds of a feather and all that."

Pam checked the hallway outside. "Coast is clear. "

"See you ladies tonight." He checked the hallway himself, and before scooting off told them, "Thanks. This is gonna be the wildest thing I've done with my clothes on in a _long_ time."

After he was gone, Pam turned to Genie with a smile. "I know, I know, _off _the record!"

* * *

After twenty minutes or so of mind-wandering and idle contemplation, Bonnie remembered the telegram in her hand. It was from Colgems main office. "Oh crap," she muttered under her breath, thinking something had to be wrong for the Powers That Be to be contacting them just days before their return to the States. Both hers and Bob's names were on it, which was unusual but not unheard of, so she opened it. She read it, leapt up from her chair, read it again, then let out a whoop so loud that half the lobby staff rushed out to see what was wrong.

She waved off the bewildered bellhops and doormen, "_Non, non, c'est rien, pardon, je suis désolé…"_ Then she tore off for the elevator, which didn't come fast enough for her, so instead she took the stairs two at a time. All four flights to the second floor, and by the time she got to the door of the guys' suite all she could do was slap it once weakly, then lean against it to struggle for breath. She could tell someone was inside: Micky was laughing; someone (probably Peter) was tuning a banjo. Still unable to speak, she threw the door open and stumbled in, waving the telegram in the air like a flag.

"Don't they knock where you come from?" Micky asked. He'd been slouched on the sofa half asleep. Davy and Mike were looking over some music charts at the table. Peter was sitting in one of the elegant armchairs stringing his new Gibson banjo, stark naked. He strategically repositioned the banjo head.

"Madam, have you no sense of decency?" he gasped, eyes wide.

Having recovered her breath and her voice, Bonnie shot back, "Relax, you got nothin' I haven't seen before. Wow, _nice_ instrument, Pete."

Three mouths began to open for comment, but she headed them off. "I mean the _banjo _you perverts." But she turned her back as Peter went to his room to grab a pair of sweatpants.

"So, did you finally win the sweeps?" Davy asked, standing and gesturing at the telegram. "Givin' your notice, are ya?"

She shook her head wildly. "Not a _chance_. _PETE!" _she yelled, "Get out here, I need to tell all of you!"

"Yup," Mike drawled, deadpan, "had it up to here with Bob and found a gig with some French filmmaker."

"Okay, okay, here I am," Peter announced. "Don't know why I bothered, since I got nothing to hide anymore. So what's this about?"

Bonnie held up the telegram as if they could all read the tiny print from where they were standing. "Emmy."

"Emmy? Who the hell is Emmy?" Mike demanded. "Jesus Morris, you bust in here with your pants on fire with a _fan letter_?"

Shooting Nesmith an evil look, she turned the telegram in her hands and read:

"From Colgems Productions- To Bob Rafelson and location crew - Congrats – stop – Monkees Emmy nominated for best comedy series – stop – ceremony on June 4 – stop - will contact you on return-stop."

Silence from all four listeners.

"I _am _speaking English, right?" Bonnie asked, incredulous at the lack of reaction. "We, that is to say, _you_, I mean the MONKEES, the show, it's nominated for an EMMY for best comedy series! Cram _that_ up your tailpipe, Variety!" Variety Magazine had been none too impressed at the show's premiere a year ago, calling it "good natured pap for the teen market."

Now the four others were exchanging looks of disbelief that segued into smiles, that slid into gales of laughter, jumping shouting, and variations on "holy _shit!_"

"Gentlemen," Bonnie intoned and made a large sign of the cross in the air, "you are hereby declared _legit!_" Then she let out a howl that would have done a rabid wolf proud, and the guys busted loose again.

When the backslapping subsided Micky laid a hand over his heart told Bonnie in a Little Orphan Annie voice, "Finally, you can be proud of working with us."

Bonnie took a step toward him, hand raised, and he ducked as usual. But instead of smacking him she buried one hand in his thick hair and pulled forward, and planted a kiss on his forehead. Then she let him go and stepped back and looked at all of them.

"I have _always_ been proud of working with you," she told them, her voice suddenly quavering. "Don't you ever _dare_ say that again."

"We know, luv," Davy told her. "And likewise. May not always seem that way, but it is. We all fell in this together."

"So… what'd King Bob have to say?" Mike wanted to know.

"Oh shit… Bob…" Bonnie ran to the phone and called his room. "Bob? Hey, got a telegram here from Colgems, the show's nominated for an Emmy for best comedy. Yeah, I just got it down at the desk. I'm in the suite with the guys, they're pretty wild about it." Silence for a moment, then, "Because they _deserved_ to hear it first, that's why! Because it doesn't matter how brilliant your ideas are if there's nobody to play them out, and that's what they do! Don't raise your voice to me, dammit, those were _your_ words, that little lecture on keeping on top of things, the day you hired me, remember? When you told me if I thought I was gonna be a secretary I could leave right then and there? Yeah. I'm glad I didn't too. You're right, I am goddamn good at juggling your shit and herding crazy actors. Thanks. I'll give you the telegram before the party so you can read it as if you got it first. Yeah, why not, we'll turn it into a combo wrap and Emmy nomination celebration tonight, I'll talk to the manager." A pause, and Bonnie looked at the guys with raised eyebrows. "_You'll_ talk to the manager? What, am I fired? Oh. Okay. But please don't screw it up, okay? And don't take advice from your valet. Kiss your w_hat_? Same to _you_! Later."

"Well that sounded like it went well," Peter observed.

"We've developed a style, I guess. He gets pissed off, I get pissed off, we _both_ get pissed off… then we just get on with it." She shrugged. "It seems to work okay."

"I guess _so_," Micky pointed at the telegram. "You're letting him make the announcement?"

"Sure, why not. You will keep your collective mouths shut before tonight, outside-of-these-four-walls wise, right?"

Peter smiled slyly. "Well that all depends what you offer in return."

She looked thoughtful for a minute, then said, "How about I _don't_ tell the press you tune your banjo naked because it makes the resonance more pure?"

"That's bullshit," he laughed.

She shrugged, smiled, and advised, "Well you know it, and _I_ know it, but the fans…?"

"_Deal_."

Peter followed her out the door as she left. "Hang on a minute… what you said about telling us first. Thanks. It means a lot."

"I know… means a lot to me, too. Good times, right? See you at the party." She was surprised when he smiled and kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Good friends," he told her, "they mean even more. See ya later. We have some surprises planned."

When she asked "Do they involve naked banjo playing?" he made a face and slammed the door.

"Hey, just asking'!" she shouted through the door, and then strolled to Bob's suite to give him the telegram. Before knocking on Bob's door, she kissed the yellow piece of paper.

"Legit," she whispered fiercely. "_Nobody _can take this one away."

* * *

**The bonus French lesson for this chapter:**

"_Mes damoiselles, felicitations et bienvenue!"_**_ –_ **"Ladies, congratulations and welcome!"**  
**"_Un télégramme."_** - **"A telegram."**  
**"_Voudriez vous avoir des café? Pour la sécurité de Monsieur Nesmith?"_** – **"Would you like some coffee? For Mr. Nesmith's safety?"**  
**"…_Avez vous lui vu? Savez-vous où il est allé?"_**_ – _**"Have you seen him? Do you know where he's gone?"**  
**"_Non, je n'sais pas,"_** - **"No, I don't know."**  
**"_Non, non, c'est rien, pardon, je suis désolé…"_**_ – _**"No, no, it's nothing, I'm sorry…"


	13. Can you dig it

To describe the party as merely a celebration of the Emmy nomination was, in fact, a criminal understatement.

When 'Last Train to Clarksville' went gold, it was the result of the writing, arranging, and performance of people the Monkees had mostly never met. The guys laid down the vocal tracks after everything else was done. So, while technically they shared in the sales award (which was, at the end of the day, what a gold record is) it felt hollow and dishonest. It was a reminder of how little effect they had on what they cared about the most – the music. And now that they had had the successes of live concerts to vindicate their musical talent, the notion of selling recordings under their names that they barely took part in making stuck in their throats more than ever. Not to mention the gloating rights it gave to Don Kirshner… the "hit maker" had another hit under his belt, and he was more than a little entitled to take credit for it. After all, he was the one who hired everyone to do the "heavy musical lifting" as he called it. What he still failed to get, that even Bob Rafelson got, was that the show sold Kirshner's hits, not the other way around.

So while the gold record was, in Mike's words, a triumph of marketing and deceit, the Emmy was nothing of the sort. Nobody but David, Mike, Peter, and Micky could play those roles, no matter what the original idea had been. The show was meant to be a chronicle of the surreal adventures of four guys trying to make it as a band… and that is exactly what they had created. Their individual talents and personalities were by now indelibly stamped on the series, and as their primary director Jim Frawley had noted in the beginning, "There are no stunt doubles for improv." Since the show's inception the guys had developed a flair for pick-up physical comedy that fit perfectly with the out-there style of the show. And even if they faked playing music on the set, well that's what would have happened no matter who had been cast. "Real" music had never been conceived as part of the onscreen gig. Until now…

As promised, Bob had spoken to the hotel manager, who had passed on to his events coordinator that this party was to be an additional celebration for the Emmy nomination. With Bob's approval, the coordinator had invited some members of the French entertainment press, and a couple of journalists from the Paris offices of U.S. newspapers. The press reps had contacted Chip to ask some technical questions about videotaping, which would be permitted only as excerpts. Chip, in turn, went directly to Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike to tip them off that this could be the opportunity they'd been waiting for. With another album being proposed for the not-too-distant future, the guys had been working together to come up with a catalogue of songs they planned to lobby for inclusion. Written and/or selected, arranged, and performed by themselves with session musicians for support only, each of them contributing according to his talents and interest. An impressive collection of stuff had been thrashed out in the past few months and, except for Chip, nobody else had been clued in.

Bob had readily agreed when the guys asked to play some music at the party: nothing formal, just as the spirit moved them. It had been a productive week, and everyone had worked harder than dogs, and he figured they deserved to get the chance to indulge their savage addiction to wanting to be a real band. He imagined it would be the stuff they had already performed live, and figured it wouldn't hurt for the French press to get a bigger taste of it and expand the market. In the end he got his wish, but not exactly in the way he'd expected.

* * *

For the first time in living memory, it appeared everyone in the room was happy at the same time. Even the waiters were laughing at the jokes, those they could understand anyway. The models were there in their most mod finery, and Genie, Pam, and Bonnie were dressed in the hippie chic collection designed by Genie herself. The guys assembled at one end of the ballroom from time to time to pick up their instruments and play. The new stuff was mostly covers of blues mined by Micky, some traditional stuff collected by Mike and Peter, and a few Broadway-style popular songs from Davy.

"I didn't think it was possible," Bonnie observed to Genie as the guys gathered for another set of songs. "_Nobody_ is grouchy tonight!" It wasn't that the show's cast and crew were "difficult", as the show business cliché went, but it was all such a juggling match that at one time or another there was bound to be somebody getting smacked in the face with a stray ball.

Pam indicated a table where Bob, Chip, and Kirshner were drinking and talking. "I don't know about that, Mr. Kirshner looks a little, uh, less than festive?"

"Don't call him 'mister'," Bonnie corrected. "He hasn't earned that much respect. Off the record."

* * *

In fact, Don Kirshner was swimming in a simmering sea of self-pity, or as close to it as someone with his ego was capable of. In his mind, the show's success had been guaranteed by the music marketing. And this Emmy nomination, well it may not _mention_ the music and how his much-maligned (by the four witless young men and Bob's harpy of a glorified receptionist) plan had succeeded in capturing a gold record, with more to come no doubt… but the fact remained that it would be just another loopy sitcom without his efforts. But tonight these TV-made fake musicians weren't playing a note of the Boyce & Hart and Diamond stuff. Apparently Bob was indulging them in their delusions of musical capability as a reward for not behaving like the carping ingrates they usually were. How he managed to keep a leash on Nesmith this past week was anyone's guess… probably getting laid regularly was keeping him in some kind of balance. Christ, those two deserved each other, Kirshner mused poisonously, though he could predict that Nesmith would leave Little Miss Know It All flat as soon as some particularly toothsome groupie wagged her tits in his face. _Oh joy, they're tuning up again. Oh well, let 'em amuse themselves… I'll catch up with the French writers here before we leave and give them some advance stuff on what I have planned for the next album._

* * *

By now Bonnie and Genie had joined Bob at his table with Kirshner, and Pam had ventured away to compare notes with a couple of Parisian fan magazine counterparts who spoke English.

"Geez, Don," Chip was saying, "you look like you're at your maiden aunt's prayer meeting. Loosen up, will ya? It's a _party_!" He raised his champagne flute to Don and Bob. "To the Monkees, and the cage-full of crazies who make it happen!" Inside, he was smirking like the devious S.O.B. that circumstances had forced him to become. "One more set, it won't kill you to listen."

Micky announced, "Okay, we got three more here for the last set, letting Mike take the lead because he's the biggest and carries a gun. Nah, no gun. Not tonight, anyway. Members of the press, see Bonnie Morris for fact- checking before you leave tonight."

From there, Mike took over. "Okay, for those of you keeping score: I'll start off with what is according to some," he found Bonnie and raised an eyebrow to her, "a new contribution to my catalogue of 'leaving songs'. Our mixer and engineer extraordinaire Chip Douglas sitting in for this one."

Chip picked up Peter's bass as Davy grabbed one of Mike's extra guitars. When Peter reached for his banjo, Bonnie couldn't help but snicker into her hand. As the partiers were thoroughly into their partying at the moment, the guys broke into a goofy burlesque of a count-in.

When that got everyone's attention, the song started with a three part lead in: guitar, then banjo on top of that, then a slide-in bass riff that kicked into the main song. It brought Bonnie and Genie half out of their seats. Continuing as an improbable fusion of string band and bass-laden rock, it featured a bitter lyric in a rolling tempo that shouldn't have worked with the upbeat instrumentals. But oh, how it worked… In the sharp cutoff after the bridge, Mike leaned into the mike with eyes closed to top the lyric with a combination groan and sigh – "auhh" – then there was a half beat cadence into a dead-on perfect drum roll into the final verse, which featured overlapping harmony lyrics. Even Bob was leaning forward, mouth open, as it built to the final, perfect cutoff. The room went wild.

"Holy crap," Bob muttered under his breath, then turned to Bonnie with a "what the hell" look. She could only shrug honestly and mouth "I have no idea" as she pounded on the table along with everyone else. Everyone else, that is, except Kirshner.

When Chip rejoined the table he managed to not look too smug as he asked, "So, brand new. Sound okay?"

"We need to talk later," Bob said, still recovering. "Where have they been hiding this shit?"

"Wherever they could, man." He shot a look at Bonnie. "Bonnie didn't know a thing, in case you think she's plotting against you."

Bob shook his head, still a little stunned. Then he turned to her, and demanded, "Nobody told you _anything?_ Not even Nesmith?" Even Genie looked like she didn't believe it.

"I swear, nobody said a word! Well, when I brought the Emmy telegram to them, Peter said something about some surprises tonight but in the end I figured he meant that they'd be playing at all."

"Emmy…" Don muttered, "the Emmy came after the gold record, lest we forget."

"Give it a rest, Don," Chip advised. "Nobody has forgotten the gold record, okay? Since you got 'pulse of the market' let us know if you hear another one coming tonight."

Up front, Mike was talking again. "This one's me tryin' my hand at a 'c'mere' song for a change."

The song that followed was undeniably a love song, but equally undeniably clear-headed and free of cliché, as Mike's songs tended to be. There was a crazy mix of tempos in alternating phrases that made it pretty much the opposite of a typical rock/ballad love song that could be heard from other rock bands. Bonnie was engaged in watching the guys' individual instrumental styles when Genie nudged her.

"Hey, y'know this one is yours…" she advised in a stage whisper.

"Huh? Don't talk crazy." Mike wrote dozens of songs, some angry, some bitter, some not so much. Sure, this one was different, and he played on her characterization of his stuff as a joke, but c'mon.

"_Look_ at him, will you?"

So Bonnie did, as he sang the bridge piece whose lyrics expressed the kind of wake-up-call that could change a casual emotion to one less casual. And she could see he had his eyes nailed on her. It wouldn't have been obvious to anyone that didn't know them. But there he was, brown eyes and every word locked on her, and she felt herself falling in a direction she hadn't considered in a very long time. When the song finished she looked away... at Genie, at the room, at anywhere at all except Nesmith. There was privacy in a song that didn't exist when it ended, and she was unwilling to expose that to a roomful of strangers.

When the applause died the last song began quickly.

"Okay, to restore the balance of the universe, we'll finish with a tearjerker by Jack Keller and Bob Russell, so you can't blame Mike except he's singing lead," Peter introduced to everyone's laughter. This one was arranged and played as pure country western, with Davy on acoustic guitar and Peter's bass gently subdued. Bonnie had heard this one before, covered by another artist, but the dynamics of Mike's vocals injected an emotional edge that brought her back to that evening at his place, when he sang the Buffy Sainte Marie song that somehow had heralded the change of everything they'd had between them. He ended the last note by breaking to an octave higher, and sliding down again, pure high-lonesome and crystal-perfect.

It was something nobody present had never imagined hearing from a pop group invented for TV. That none of the outsiders were aware of the instrumental deception of the previous album made the triumph even sweeter. The guys tried to get to Bob's table, but they were surrounded by press, who wanted to know more about their new music and mix of styles. Micky caught Bob's eye, but he just nodded to give them the go-ahead. He knew nobody was stupid enough to give up the truth about the other recordings, so why not see where this new music might lead?

Kirshner, who had sat stone faced through every song, broke his silence. "Well it's fine for a party, but it won't sell records."

"Oh for Christsake," muttered Bob. He'd had about enough of Kirshner's self-serving whining. At least when the guys whined, it was because they actually believed what they wanted would improve things. Kirshner's whining was born of ego, and it sometimes threatened to overwhelm his usefulness.

"No, Bob, let the Hit Maker talk." Bonnie had had just enough to drink, and more than enough to hear, to shut her verbal filter off where Kirshner was concerned. "So tell us, _Don_, what part of that applause and what part of that press mob are you missing?"

As always, Kirshner had an answer ready. "Personal taste, or lack thereof, notwithstanding… the show has thrived on the record sales. Kids listen, they buy the records, and they tune in to the show to hear what the next hit will be."

Chip rolled his eyes and nearly laughed. All Bob said was, "Don't let that gold for Clarksville screw up your perspective, Donnie."

But Bonnie was on a roll, fueled by all the times in all the meetings she'd kept her mouth shut when this trumped-up musical vending machine spouted off as if he were God's gift to anything but marketing the music he'd reduced to widgets. She stood up and glared down at where Kirshner sat smugly swirling his scotch-rocks and smiling. Chip and Genie sat still as statues, not saying a word.

"Easy, babe, why don't you go see how the guys are doing with the press," Bob suggested, wanting to head off what he saw coming… and knowing it was far past too late.

"Oh no, Bob, I agree with you one hundred percent, we need to help Don with his perspective." He looked up at her sharply as she continued, "Let me put it in simple words for you… the records don't sell the show. The show peddles your bubble gum. That gold record? The one written, and played, and produced, by everyone _except_ the guys? It sold _because of the show_. But this?" She motioned to the now-empty makeshift bandstand. "This will sell _itself_, and will sell the show, and so on, with no need to fake it. Your 'hit machine' is no longer necessary. The fans, the sold out concerts, and now the press know it. And you'll never tip them off that it ever _was_ a fake, because that'd blow your gig right out of the water." She looked at Bob, who didn't look ready to intervene. "My guess is we won't need to be peddling your bubble gum much longer."

Kirshner straightened in his seat, looked at Bob, then back to Bonnie, and laughed. "Oh, now it's 'we'. The glorified secretary and babysitter has inherited musical credibility by way of what… sleeping with the Texas whiner?"

"Don, knock it off," Bob warned. Disagreements aside, he didn't like the ugly direction Kirshner was taking.

"Sure, sure…" he nodded mildly. "I'm just wondering… which one of those last three you believe, Bonnie? Which one of those _wonderful_ new songs do you think came from the heart?"

"Huh?" She was confused. Even in the heat of the moment, the question made no sense.

"I mean, do you think he's gonna walk out on you? Or maybe you really think you 'just may be the one' for a guy who's grabbed every piece of ass from here to L.A. Or… maybe you should pay attention to the last one. Maybe he'll dump you after he's knocked you up, and write his own 'tearjerker'." He greeted the shocked silence from his tablemates with another cynical laugh. "Hey, she advised me on my specialty, I'm just advising her on hers." He looked up at Bonnie with a reptilian smile. "Right, 'Morris'?"

Bonnie motioned to a passing waiter and grabbed a flute of champagne from his tray. She raised it toward the bandstand, took a sip, then dumped the rest on Kirshner's head and stormed away.

The cool-unto-death Don Kirshner was apoplectic with rage. He glanced around the room to see who if anyone had witnessed the scene, then snapped at Bob, "You're _not_ gonna let that bitch get away with this!"

Bob regarded him with undisguised disdain. "As a matter of fact, I might just give her a raise. You may have helped us make some big money, Don, and yeah you know better than anyone else how to spin gold from shit-covered straw. But the people who work for me, and those guys," he pointed toward the dispersing crowd around Davy, Micky, Peter, and Mike, "all of them have done more for me, and _with_ me, than you and your 'hit machine'. You think I'm gonna let you talk like that to one of my people, you're dead wrong. She may or may not be right about what we need from you, but I sure as shit know what we _don't_ need. So when we get back to L.A. we're gonna have a contract meeting, you and Raybert, and you'd better have more than a stable full of bubble gum writers and session musicians in mind. Bonnie was right about one thing, because she heard it from me first: the show sells the records. _Not_ the other way around. Now why don't you go the bar and get yourself another drink. Yours is a little watered down with champagne."

* * *

The guys barely missed colliding with Bonnie as she rampaged out of the ballroom. Only Peter had caught a glimpse of the exchange at the table, including Kirshner's Moët shower.

"She just dumped a drink on Kirshner," Peter informed the others. "And it looks like Bob didn't do a thing. Whatever happened, it must have been wild!"

"I'll go find out how wild," Mike said as he followed in the direction Bonnie had taken. He found her in the hallway outside the ballroom, hiding behind a potted palm. She was pale, trembling with rage, and on the verge of tears. Unsure what to say first, he asked, "So… didn't care much for the set list?"

"That sonofabitch Kirshner, he's so twisted out of shape that he has nothing to do with what happened tonight… he was spouting off as usual and I told him what Bob had always told me, that the show sells the songs, not the other way around, and I told him that now that was gonna change. That this stuff you just did, that now everyone knows it'll sell itself, and…" she ran out of words, so wound up on a mix of emotion from the argument, from what Kirshner said, from the songs… to her supreme embarrassment she burst into tears. "He asked me which song I believed, the leaving one, the c'mere one, or the dump-the-pregnant girl one…" she fumed between tearful gasps.

Mike's eyes widened… _Jesus, she couldn't be thinking… _ He bent to peer into her face. "C'mon, you didn't _believe_ him, did you?"

"_No!_ I'm not stupid, it's just… please tell me you didn't write that second one for me."

"Huh? What, you're feeling pressured by one song? Don't worry, the future does not hang on it!"

"No, for christsake." She was calming down – why did he always manage to do that without trying? She rubbed fiercely at her eyes and tried to explain. "It's not pressure, it's just, well what you said in that song, the way you looked at me, I don't think I can handle the responsibility of being a muse or anything, a reason to change your style or your life."

He stood up, and stood back. "You're kiddin'." He looked at her closely, as if she'd just sprouted a second head. "You can relax, Morris, I didn't write it for you. I never write this stuff for _anyone_. In fact it's been lying around in pieces for a couple of years now, and just recently came together. I just _sang _it to you. Okay? And I might add that _you _were lookin' back pretty hard yourself."

_Lying around in pieces... and just recently came together._ The thought gelled in both of them at the same time.

"Uh, so maybe we're at 'making some more space', like in that other song, you think?" Bonnie asked.

"Hm. Looks like maybe." He was smiling "that" smile, the one that reached his eyes, the one that turned her guts to jello every time.

"So much stuff is swirling around, the music, and that _asshole_, and this… I have no idea what to say next that'll make sense."

Mike's smile grew, and he pulled Bonnie further into the corner behind the palm tree.

"Start with something simple. Try… 'I kinda think maybe I love you, Nesmith.'"

"But this is crazy, all this shit happening, I don't know what…"

"'I kinda think maybe I love you, Nesmith.' Give it a shot." He could see the words triggered the memory in her of another conversation in a small sound booth, either not long ago or a million years past, it was impossible to tell. "Hey, have I ever steered you wrong?"

"I kinda think maybe I love you, Nesmith."

"Well that's a mighty coincidence, because I kinda think maybe I love you too, Morris. Now how about you give me some sugar to seal the deal."

She reached up around his neck and he pulled her off the floor for a lingering kiss.

"So," he whispered in her ear, "howdja like that little gasp I did in the first song? That _was _for you… I know how that stuff turns you on."

She pulled back a little, still hanging in his arms. "I've heard better."

"Cruel, _evil _minded," he finished the statement into her open mouth. After about half a minute of midair makeout, they heard the sound of subdued applause. Not putting Bonnie down, Mike lifted his head to look for the source. At the junction of the hallway and the lobby entrance, the night concierge Marcel stood with one of the bellhops, both smiling and clapping in approval.

"Thanks folks, we'll be here all week," Mike deadpanned. Then to Bonnie he added, "And I got something special planned for tomorrow night." He set her down and asked with a wink, "Assuming you're free?"

She answered with a wink of her own. "No, but I'm cheap."

"Well thank God for that, it's a while til the next royalty check. Hey now, speaking of cheap," he leaned close and growled, "how about we go upstairs and do something we won't regret?"

"Gonna have to be later. I have an idea that might save the night for everybody."

So they rejoined the party, where Bob agreed to re-stage the Kirshner champagne bath for the sake of PR.

"Hey, Don, it's a celebration of the Emmy, _and_ the gold record! What's not to like?" Chip asked wickedly.

The guys, along with Bonnie, Genie, Bob, and Chip, arrayed themselves behind a very disgruntled Kirshner, eight brimming champagne flutes in hand.

Pam, who had borrowed Micky's camera, was delighted to call the cue.

"One, two… three… dump!"

* * *

Two hours later as Don Kirshner boarded the redeye from Orly to L.A., Bob was in his suite planning a press call and some new preliminary recording sessions to fit in between tapings after they returned.

* * *

Chip was partying in the suite with the guys and the models and other assorted crew. By this point it was obvious that any horizontal recreation that happened wouldn't involve the models… they'd unexpectedly become more like siblings to the guys. But that was okay, as always others would be willing.

* * *

In room 212, Mike Nesmith was pleasantly surprised to find that an octopus had replaced his armadillo. After they did something, _several_ somethings, that neither one of them regretted one bit, Bonnie remained wrapped around him as if she had eight long arms instead of just two.

"You know Kirshner is full of shit, right?" Mike asked Bonnie just before sunrise. He knew that she knew him better than that, but he also knew that his personal history sometimes tilted the scales toward 'asshole' even if it were (he hoped) no longer true.

She answered by snuggling closer and kissing his neck. "Look, Nesmith, I ain't seventeen, and I ain't pregnant." She moved her mouth along the edge of his sideburn, ending under his ear, and was rewarded by the real-life version of _auhh._ "And you ain't going _nowhere _on my watch."

* * *

Meanwhile in Genie and Pam's room, the two conspirators/romantic consultants slept soundly. Two garment bags, one tied with red silk ribbon, hung in the closet, soon to prove that ten days in Paris without romance simply would not be tolerated.

* * *

**A/N:** for anyone who hasn't figured it out already, the three songs are 'You Told Me', 'You Just May Be the One', and 'If I Ever Get to Saginaw Again'. If you've never heard that last one, check it out on Youtube; it's a killer.


	14. Propinquity

**Propinquity: **_Noun _1. nearness in place, proximity. 2. nearness of relation. 3. affinity of nature. 4. nearness in time.

* * *

_Villa Montparnasse Room 212, 5:45am_

Of course it was too good to last; he should have known. Mike woke for no particular reason to find himself alone in bed. A brief inspection revealed neither octopus nor armadillo. He sighed and rolled his eyes in the dimness. Here he was, finally trying to be worthy of more than a quick famous fuck, to maybe get a chance to indulge his newly discovered interest in treating a woman (okay, _this _woman) like something special… and _damn, where did she go_? Pam and Genie had already told him of Bonnie's casual immunity to the notion of romance in Paris. Okay, he'd never been all that great at that kind of thing himself, but at least he believed in it in the abstract. He couldn't write the stuff he did, even the "leaving and stay away" stuff, and _not_ believe in it. Of course actually accomplishing it, romance that is, it required more effort than he'd ever been inclined to expend. Until now. And now… where _was_ she, goddammit? For once in his life he had a fix on what was important to him, and just his luck Morris was a moving target.

He called out to the shadows, "I know you're here somewhere..."

"Over here," came her voice from the oversized armchair near the bay window. "Couldn't sleep. Didn't wanna wake you."

"Why not?_ I'm_ not the one with the world-class right hook." He reached for his jeans on the floor and pulled them on before going to the window and pulling the curtains aside.

"You're facing the wrong way," he observed. Behind her the sun was beginning to light the sky. The second floor didn't offer a spectacular view, but it was better than L.A. and the Paris rooftops in the area were pretty cool. "Get up for a minute." He pulled her out of the chair and turned it around to face the window. "That's better."

"Wait a minute, you can't just rearrange the furniture in a place like this," Bonnie protested.

"Take it easy, I'm not fixing to trash the room." Mike dropped into the chair and pulled her into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. "Groovy. Sunrise in Paris, baby. Check it out."

She squirmed a little. "C'mon, I got things to take care of…"

"When you were beating me senseless yesterday morning you told me I could do whatever I want today. Well I wanna do _this_ for as long as I can get you to sit still. Least you could do is cooperate." She relaxed then, and settled back against him. "That's more like it." She was wearing one of the thick terry robes the hotel supplied; it made her feel soft and fluffy, like holding a big stuffed animal. He cuddled her closer, loving the feel of the robe, of _her_, against his skin. "Mmm, this is _livin'_."

She laughed a little at that. Sometimes he got these silly moods, laying on the romantic attitude a mile thick. "Last night, _that_ was living…"

"Last night was _business_," he corrected. "_This_," he freed one hand to point at he coloring sky, then smoothed her hair back and turned her face toward his, "this is _living_. You'n'me, nice and quiet, out of reach of the PTB."

"It's _all_ living, Nesmith. You can't break it up into little boxes to deal with one at a time. Like… I don't know how you can be one way here and now, and somebody entirely different out there."

"Are you the same way here as you are out there?"

She shook her head. "You know that's not what I mean."

"Baby…" he began, but didn't want to spoil his good mood. Why did she always have to try to talk sense to him when it really didn't matter? "Don't talk so much right now, okay? Just dig on the sunrise…" he kissed her neck, "and dig on us… leave the rest of it for later." He felt, rather than heard, her sigh as she turned a little to settle her head on his shoulder. "What's that for?"

"You just told me not to talk so much. So this is me not talking so much."

"You are one contrary wench, you know that? Go ahead, rap away." When she didn't say anything he bent his head to look her in the face. "Speak, Contrary Wench."

"I _really_ like my job, y'know?"

"Auhh," he breathed in her ear, giving the lobe a light nibble. "I _really_ like your job too."

"But I'm probably gonna be looking for a new one, after last night."

"For giving a champagne bath to Kirshner? Nah. From what I heard he deserved it. If I'd been there…"

"If you'd been there you'd just have had a handy excuse for what you wanna do anyway, so thanks but no thanks. Yeah, Bob did the re-dump thing for the press, but in the cold light of day it's gonna be different. He knows Kirshner is an asshole but he also knows he's had a lot to do with your success."

"_His_ success, you mean. Don't be so uptight, will you? Here it is, the cold light of day, and you still got your job, and I still got mine, and so forth and et cetera. Thought I'd throw in some business talk, since you're in the mood." He was hoping for a smile, but it wasn't happening. Instead, she pulled free from him and shuffled over to sit on the bed.

"I don't know… he could turn on a dime in a couple of hours. And this," she gestured between them, around the room, "the press is gonna catch on sooner or later. That's gonna make things complicated."

Giving up on a casual cuddle, Mike got up and went to kneel on the bed in front of Bonnie. "What's goin' on here? It's like now that things might be going right, you're doing a shopping list of shit that can go wrong. I've never seen you like this."

She sighed and looked in his questioning eyes. "I guess I've never had something I can't stand the idea of losing. Not just you, or us, I mean _all _of it, it all goes together. I'm trying to figure out the stuff that can go wrong so I can head it off."

"This a little bit about Benny?" he asked. He thought for a minute she was going to cry, but she managed not to.

"No, because I never even thought of it, and then he was gone. You know how a junkie will do anything to feel that rush again? I think maybe I'll do anything _not_ to feel the way I did when I lost him." She didn't say it bitterly, and took hold of his hand so he wouldn't misunderstand. "Jesus Nesmith, I came to L.A. to get _distance_ and look what I got…"

"Propinquity."

"Huh? Sounds like a town in Kansas. What's 'propinquity'?"

"It's this." He reached his hands out to pull her against his chest, between his spread knees, and smiled when she wrapped closer around him (_welcome back, my Octopus_). He kissed her hair before continuing, "It's keeping close to what's important, paying attention to what's here now, 'making a space', remember? You know you want to, and you do it when you forget to worry. But then you remember, and you start counting and figuring and pulling away."

"You talk like a songwriter. Life isn't a song."

"Nope, but it can make 'em easy to write." He lifted her head from his shoulder. "You know how I get that stuff I write that you said sounds so real? I pay attention, and it just comes to me. That's why I don't write 'for' anybody, because it doesn't come from anybody particular. I pay attention, and something just comes to me the right way and I make it mine. Kinda like you, Morris… I paid attention, and you came to me the right way."

"I know I'm not the first one who has, I mean the right way, and you aren't either, for me."

"Nope. But maybe we'll be the last if we play our cards right. Either way, worrying and counting and backing away won't make it happen. So we might as well just let it happen like it happens, and try to get it right." He took her face in his hands. "I really want to get it _right_ this time."

Bonnie leaned in and kissed him. "So far, so good." She slouched down so she was lying in his lap, idly stroking the dark hair that covered his forearms, and continuing to the backs of his hands, and back again.

"If I met you a long time ago," he mused, "I mighta made a lot less mistakes."

"I'm glad you didn't. I think maybe you'd have made 'em anyway, and you'd be here with somebody else now. Or with nobody you really want to know."

Mike scowled down at her. "You can kill a mood quicker 'n any woman I ever met."

"But I though you were a pragmatist, like me? I didn't know I fell in with a romantic."

"Time and place, missy, time and place, there is one for everything." He was smiling again. "Sun's up. You want coffee, or you want to lounge in bed with a romantic songwriter?"

"Depends." She sat up again. "What's 'propinquity'?"

"I _told_ you," he sighed in mock exasperation, then caught her in his arms and threw them both full length on the bed, wrapping his arms and legs around her so she couldn't move. "_This_."

"Okay. In that case I'll go with plan B." She snuggled so close, pressing her face into his lean collarbone, that she swore she could hear his blood flowing in his veins. "Am I gonna get more 'propinquity' tonight?"

"Much as you can handle," he promised.

She was halfway asleep when the phone rang.

"Don't you dare," he warned her, tightening his grip.

"But it's gotta be important or nobody would be calling!" Bonnie wrestled free and went for the phone, leaving Mike to flop out spread-eagled and empty-armed with an extravagant sigh.

"Seduced and abandoned," he lamented, "Hand me my _gui_tar, I think I feel a song coming on…"

Bonnie rolled an eye in his direction as she picked up the phone. "Bob. Well yeah, it is kinda early, but… what? Oh, right, last night. Look, I was really pissed off and had a little to drink, I didn't mean… huh? It isn't? You did? Wow I don't know what to say… no I _don't_ assume you are the world's biggest asshole, Bob. I'm not surprised, just… well I thought you'd think I went too far. He's done some important things for the show, for the guys. No, of course not, I didn't think you liked what he said, just… sorry Bob. Thanks, I mean it. I'm glad you called, I've been kinda thinking about it myself." She could see Mike was nodding his head furiously, and circling his index finger next to his temple in the "crazy" sign. "Yeah, see ya later. Two pm for wrap up is fine, we have most everything taken care of already. Bye."

"So. He's tossing you out on the street with a pink slip and a tin cup full of pencils, right?"

"Okay, so you were right…" Bonnie muttered.

Mike sat bolt upright, extending his fist. "Ex_cuse_ me, I didn't hear that clearly. Speak into the microphone."

"I said, you were **RIGHT**. Happy?"

"Almost." Now he beckoned with both hands.

"Oh yeah, where were we?" she asked and jumped onto the bed and into his arms, laughing as she rolled him under her.

"Propinquity. This here's just a sample... tonight'll be the real thing."


	15. I'm a believer

"Now this, I could get used to, but you're gonna tell me not to."

The remains of the elegant room service breakfast Bonnie had ordered lay abandoned on the table among bone china coffee cups and randomly scattered linen napkins, looking almost as much like a still life as Mike Nesmith did at the moment. He was lying on the love seat with his bare feet dangling over the arm and his head in Bonnie's lap. Her fingers were tangling and stroking through his thick hair, wandering over his forehead and tracing his eyebrows, trailing down the edges of his sideburns and under his ears and back up again, to make the trip down the other side.

"Oh yeah," he breathed, not bothering to open his eyes, "mama you oughta learn to slow down more often…"

"You're not gonna purr, are you?" she teased.

"Nope, but you can count on me rubbin' up against you when you least expect it. Now how about puttin' that other hand to use, you missed a spot behind my left ear…"

In her other hand Bonnie held the notes she'd put together for her meeting with Bob. She'd hastily written something up while Nesmith was in the shower, not wanting to ruin their morning together by looking like she was working. She wasn't really… or so she told herself. Just a few of the usual post-production things she didn't want to forget about, a few numbers she'd had the time to crunch.

"I don't wanna spoil you too much, like you said." His eyes were closed, after all, and she could do two things at once, especially when one involved him. Unlike him, she had a hard time disengaging entirely from her work because her wheels were always turning, afraid of missing something or failing to keep up. There was _so much_ to keep up with... Nesmith had a talent for locking out the things he didn't feel like thinking about at any given moment, and picking them up later. Bonnie envied that, to a point anyway. Now she ran the thumb of her free hand under that lush lower lip and cupped his chin, bending to give him a quick kiss before _very carefully_ turning the page of the notebook she had balanced on the arm of the love seat.

"Think you're slick, dontcha," he drawled lazily. "I heard that page turnin'." He also heard the notebook drop when she let it go as if burned her. When he opened his eyes she was looking down at him with sad, guilty eyes.

"I'm really trying, I'm not just playing you," she told him, and was grateful to see the gentle smile he always wore when he caught her out.

"Damn, I know that you foolish woman. C'mon, don't look like you just stole somethin'. I know you can't shut it off like I do, you gotta juggle it all." He reached for both of her now-empty hands, gently bundling her fingers together for kiss, then pressing them flat against his chest. "Quit worrying so much, go ahead and juggle, you're keeping me in the air just fine. And in case you didn't notice, I got stuff I need to juggle too." He lifted his hand as if to look at his watch but instead pulled her down for another kiss. "Gotcha."

* * *

"Okay, that wraps it up for now," Bob announced to close the meeting. "Bonnie you can hand all the numbers to accounting when we get back to L.A. Chip, you go straight to the booth for sound and music editing. Go with what we had already. There's enough there to keep the guys from carrying on too much. If it's not, tough. We've spent enough on this already."

"We've been getting lots of notice in the French press," Pam informed them. She had been thrilled to be invited to an actual production meeting. "Not just entertainment, but business, because they're trying to tap into the TV market, not just film, and I've heard from some of them that they the city and national film boards would like to get more outside productions filming here. Oh, and here's my article." She handed it to Bob. "Press deadline isn't for two weeks after we get back, so you'll have plenty of time to suggest changes if you want to." Bonnie was about to say something but Pam interjected, "Don't worry, that's a copy."

Bob offered a narrow eye to both of them. "I'm sure that's just in case we spill coffee on it. Because you know I don't lose important stuff."

"Thanks, Mr. Rafelson. For calling it 'important'," Pam managed not to sound quite as gushingly grateful as she really was.

"Anything that can help the show is important. Okay everyone, take off. Bonnie you'll get everyone's passports tomorrow when we meet downstairs to check out. When's the flight again?"

"Four o'clock. Same as last time, except we're all going back the same flight. Crew flies coach and the guys and us here, we're in First. I made sure they kept it clear for just us."

"Great. We're done."

Everyone headed for the door except Bonnie, who by long-established habit took a bit longer to gather her things as the others left.

"So. What now? With Kirshner I mean. And with me." She really wasn't all that sure there would be no repercussions.

"I told you. As far as I'm concerned it was Don who was out of line, and it happened off the clock. I should have shut him up sooner." Then he laughed and shook his head. "You had your share of crap to field this week, babe, and you were right, it's not in your contract that I remember. We'll talk about a new pay scale when we get back. You did good, Bonnie, for real. Now go do your civilizing magic on Nesmith. He's not gonna be happy the new stuff didn't get in the episode and I'm not in the mood to deal with him until maybe next week."

"Thanks, Bob. Y'know I confess I'm surprised this did turn out this well, I really didn't think this would work at all, to be honest, for a bunch of very specific reasons."

"And you didn't say that until now?"

"Not in my contract, man." She departed with a laugh.

Nesmith had said that it was important she be back at the room by five, something to do with the Big Surprise tonight, and it was already three-thirty. She'd have just enough time to go to the café next door to grab an espresso and go over her departure checklist, and get back on time. She still had no idea what he had up his long sleeve… couldn't be a party, the room was too small. Probably another gypsy jazz club, something nice and low key. She laughed to herself when she thought of Pam's continued insistence that a visit to Paris had to involve some specific, romantic _happening_. That kind of thing was okay, but it was kind of like the pretty frosting on all the culinary works of art displayed in the _patisserie _windows. Nice, but not necessary. With a tough week behind her she couldn't imagine how this final night of downtime could be improved by pretty frosting, even if it was with Nesmith.

* * *

"Here they are, _Monsieur_ Nesmith… here is the address, but the car will be here at half past six, and the driver knows exactly what to do. Your reservations, they are for seven o'clock. And the other request… that too has been arranged. _Mon ami_ Gaston is well acquainted with the music director."

"Phil, you are a master. I just hope it all goes by the plan…"

Philippe drew himself up to his full, professional posture. "_Monsieur_, you wound me." Then he laughed, and promised, "All will be well. And I must say, I commend you. We have not had many, ah, popular musicians as guests, and we were prepared for mayhem. It is wonderful to meet someone from such a young culture who has so much romance in his soul. To visit Paris for the first time… it must be said, romance is not optional."

"Thanks. In my case, it's been getting rusty."

"Ah but rust may be removed and _voil__á__! _All is restored. You must tell me tomorrow, everything."

"Well if I don't I'll be sure to write! Thanks again, man, and if we get back again here you are comin' to dinner with us. But you gotta call me 'Mike'. I don't think I could get used to _Michel_, no matter what it means."

"It would be _mon plaisir_, Mike. And have a wonderful evening with _Mademoiselle_ Morris."

* * *

Bonnie didn't notice the ribbon-adorned garment bag until she closed the door. "Put me on," said the sign hung from the red silk. Huh? She went to the phone and dialed Genie's room.

"Hey, do you guys know anything about this wardrobe bag on my door?" she asked when Pam answered. "The tag says 'put me on'. So who's putting _me_ on?"

"I don't know. I'm about questions, not answers, remember?" _Oh my god, did we or did we not imagine this would happen?_ She beckoned to Genie, who had been setting her records in order in her briefcase. "Bonnie wants to know what that bag is doing on her door and what the note means."

Genie's exasperated sigh could have blown out all the candles in all the chandeliers at Versailles. She stomped across the room and snatched the phone from Pam's hand.

"Look, you obstinate cow, just embrace the bloody mystery and put the bloody thing on, right?" She slammed the phone down and turned back to Pam. "Bloody hell, I'm starting to wonder how Tall Boy ever got close to her."

Pam was smiling. "Well not that I've learned a lot from just ten days, but it seems like they're more in tune than anyone gets. They're both always trying to get one up on whatever will happen next, and control it."

"_Au contraire,_ as the French say, you seem to have learned quite a lot."

"Amazing what you can learn when you just stand back and watch and listen." Pam shrugged, and then grinned. "Off the record, of course."

* * *

Rebuffed by Genie, Bonnie decided to go ahead and open the bag. Inside was a dress… and what a dress! A black silk satin shell topped with a sheer black silk overdress with three-quarter sleeves, a burst of colorful flowers on the front of each shoulder and a few more irregularly placed on the skirt and back. They looked as if they'd been painted on with delicate watercolors. _Oh my god this is the dress I saw in her design shop!_ The one Bonnie had tried on, and laughed when Genie had told her how gorgeous it looked on her. It had looked like a work of art on the hanger, but really… 30's elegance would never be her style. At the bottom of the bag were black silk pantyhose, bra and panties, and a pair of black satin pumps.

_Just embrace the bloody mystery..._

Well all right, maybe it was time. She was in and out of the shower in minutes; careful to keep her tightly braided hair dry, and slipped into the decadent-feeling silk underthings. They fit perfectly. Of course they did, as would the dress, because Genie had a hand in this somehow, and Genie had taken her measurements a long time ago so she could put together some press call and other outfits for her.

Bonnie stood staring at the dress on its hanger... _what on earth is happening tonight?_

"Embrace the bloody mystery," she told herself aloud, and put it on. The inner silk shell hung just below her knees; the uneven hem of the sheer overdress reached her ankles. It felt like heaven, just _heaven,_ against her skin. There was no jewelry she owned that would look even remotely right with it. But when she walked to the full length mirror on the bathroom door and saw herself she knew nothing more was needed. When was the last time she'd actually, truly, dressed up? The night Benny had his first solo gig at Strings Attached, maybe, but even that was more hippie chic than this. She put on the shoes; blessedly they felt comfortable. The heels were only a couple of inches (and a good thing because she was accustomed to sneakers and sandals), but she felt taller and more elegant than she'd ever felt before.

_Oh crap, my hair!_ She pulled out the braid she'd worn since stepping out of the shower last night and was trying to tame the resulting waves with a large barrette when she heard the knock at the door. She looked at the clock… six o'clock. "Just a sec!" She grabbed the pile of discarded clothes from the floor and flung them on the bed, then ran to the door.

"Is that you?" She was answered by Nesmith's unmistakable, albeit muffled, drawl.

"Well that all depends on who you were expecting, lady."

* * *

If Bonnie had only recently tilted just past the edge of falling for this rangy, moody piece of work from Dallas, what greeted her when she opened the door knocked her all the way over, without hope of redemption.

"Oh my g… _Nes_… you look…"

He stood there, waiting. He stood there, waiting, in white tie and black tails. He stood there waiting in white tie and black tails, and his signature Ray Bans. Holding what had to be two dozen white roses bound in a colossal wrap of white ribbons and lace.

"You're lookin' pretty fine yourself, Morris." Instead of standing aside to let him in, she was backing away, mouth hanging open. "What are you runnin' _away_ for?" He strode in casually and offered the flowers again. "It's a bouquet, not a gun."

"Oh, sorry," she took the massive bunch of roses but couldn't find anything large enough to put them in, so instead ran into the bathroom and filled the sink with water, carefully setting them there as Nesmith laughed.

"Good thing I didn't bring a corsage, you'd be jumping in the shower."

When she re-entered the room his laughter cut off short. "My good jumping Jesus, you are a _vision_." He saw she'd been getting ready to wind her hair up again. "No, don't…" He took the barrette from her and reached over to the bureau, where a random collection of his pocket contents had been scattered over the past week, and picked up a wrap-around tortoise shell thumb pick. "Turn around," he directed, and when she did he took thick bunches hair from either side of her head and twisted them together, then snapped the thumb pick around them. "Lemme see."

She turned around again, facing him and the mirror. Some of her hair was pulled away from her face, but most of it cascaded in disordered waves around her head and shoulders.

"Just like an angel in a painting," he said quietly.

"Why?" she asked, gesturing at him, and herself, and the flowers in the bathroom. She couldn't help it. She always had to ask why. Why kiss in Chicago, why the trip to New York for Benny's tape... as if there were some answer that would make it all clear and safe.

"Because after almost two years of having everyone falling down for me just because I show up…" He reached out and ran two fingers down her hair. "I wanna treat a woman like she's special, but hell there haven't been many around I saw that way. So you are the lucky winner, Morris. And if that's me bein' selfish so be it." He paused, watching her face for signs of… anything. Then something in her eyes replaced the questions. He couldn't be sure, but it looked something like what he was trying to deserve. "And besides, my prom sucked. Thought I'd give it another shot."

Snapped from her trance, Bonnie burst out laughing. "My prom sucked, too. My date got in a fight and got arrested. I spent the night trolling the crowd collecting bail money."

"Well I don't think I can promise anything _that _exciting… but get a move on, missy. We got a ride waiting downstairs."

She took the arm he offered and as they made their way to the elevator, the circled thumb-and-finger "okay" gesture Mike made behind his back with his free hand registered loud and clear two with the two women whose door was cracked open just wide enough to see.

* * *

Never one with a taste for cliché, Bonnie nonetheless felt like Cinderella. The chauffeured car took them to what had to be the finest dinner club in Paris. Dinner was superb, the wine was to die for. And being out, alone, themselves alone… just staring at him across a candle-lit table made Bonnie feel as if she'd stepped through the looking glass. It was completely out of her realm, but it felt… perfect, and real. Not at all like _patisserie_ displays.

They didn't talk about the show, or the band, or anything to do with what had, after all, thrown them into each other's paths. They talked about books, about music, about history and art and film, passions neither had ever had the time to really discover in the other beyond the short ten-minute snatches that had happened at work. Both were surprised there was so much left to learn. It was like Chicago, and that first night at his place, all over again. Discovering was even better than knowing, because it was being in motion. Like a drive between Burbank and the Hollywood Hills in a red convertible with the top down…

The waiter cleared away the dessert dishes and left the silver coffee pot.

"Can you dig it, Morris? All the coffee you can possibly want, all for you."

Something about seeing him through a candlelit golden haze, and hearing "Can you dig it?" delighted Bonnie. She laughed and reached for his hand (as her other poured the coffee). "Oh yeah, I really can."

The maitre d' approached and bent to whisper something in Mike's ear. "Merci," he responded in heavily Texas-accented French, and then drew Bonnie to her feet. "Okay, Morris, time to try out those fancy dancin' shoes you're wearing."

She froze. "_Dancing?_" Aside from the free form rock club gyrations she'd grown up on, dancing was not one of her skills. "I can't dance," she told him urgently as he pulled her bodily toward the parquet floor at the far end of the dining room. "Besides, you're too tall! I'm too short! _I can't dance!_" She tried to pull him to a stop, but to no avail. "And I never knew _you_ could dance, not like they do here! C'mon, let's just sit down and have coffee…" she begged.

"Nuthin' doin'. I have dropped a bucketload of cash on this night, and I say you are going to _dance_. And don't worry, I had to take lessons in high school, which for _one_ of us wasn't too long ago. So just fight every natural instinct you have, and follow my lead."

A few minutes into the first song, performed by the small band and a wonderful cabaret singer, Bonnie relaxed and began to wonder why she'd fought it. This, this was _living_, holding each other in front of everyone, no flashbulbs and no worries… and she managed not to step on his feet. Well, maybe once or twice, but if he noticed he didn't say. By the end of the third song, she didn't want to leave.

"Okay, baby, but just one more…" he told her. What he knew, that she didn't, was that the violinist had his marching orders from Philippe the concierge's friend, the music director. The next tune would be as special as everything else tonight.

A waltz started, one that sounded familiar to Bonnie. Mike was resting his chin against her head that lay easily on his shoulder. _I could stay like this forever_. Two minds with a single thought, though one was a bit more surprised than the other.

Bonnie lifted her head and looked up at Mike. "This one sounds familiar, but it's not French, it's American."

"It's Texan. The Armadillo Waltz," he told her earnestly, not missing a beat as he moved them around the floor (with less of a struggle than he'd expected, to be honest).

"Now wait a minute… you mean the _Amarillo_ Waltz, right?"

Mike smiled down at her. "Depends on who you're waltzin' with."

"But I don't get…"

Content to keep the his late-night joke to himself for the time being, he silenced her with a kiss.

"Morris, sometimes you talk too damn much… will ya please just shut up and dance?"

* * *

The flight home was uneventful, beginning to end, though Pam and Genie were unbearably smug, as was Mike.

"So, _now_ do you believe in romantic Paris?" Pam wanted to know.

"Sure. As long as you believe the Monkees are the hardest working act on TV."

"You read the article, you tell me."

"I'd say this trip made believers of both of you," Genie laughed.

In the next row, Micky started up. "Reminds me of a song… not a long song… but a good song…"

Genie reached over his seat and smacked him in the back of the head.

"Lemme guess, in your contract," Davy remarked.

Bob glanced up from his notebook. "Working on it. Keeping Dolenz in line is a two-woman job."

Bonnie sat down again and slouched under Mike's arm. "So we got time off coming after we finish the post production stuff this week. I promised Ari I'd come see him. It's been past long enough."

Mike nodded, absorbed in the latest "Car and Driver" magazine. "Sounds groovy."

"I was told I should bring my rock star boyfriend. How about it?"

"Well if he can't make it, I'm in."

"Nesmith you are definitely not gonna get laid for _such_ a long time…"

"Man, Kirshner's right about at least one thing," Peter grumbled sleepily from across the aisle, unhappy at being woken. "You sure as _hell_ deserve each other."


End file.
